


"Growing Pains"

by AloryShannon



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: AU, Adoption, Adventure, Angst, BROMANCE lol, Complete, Drama, Epic Bromance, Family Relationships - Freeform, Gen, Humor, Jotun!Loki, Marvel movie-verse, Platonic Relationship, Thor (2011) - Freeform, Thor Kinkmeme Fill, brotherly fluff fic, family fic, genfic for the win!, inconvenient physiology, multichapter fic, norse mythology tie-ins, not yaoi, what-if fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AloryShannon/pseuds/AloryShannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Thor Kinkmeme on LJ: "Odin, in this universe, has the foresight to realize that keeping Loki's origins from him could end up alienating his son. On his tenth birthday, he tells Loki of his Frost Giant heritage, and while it upsets the boy initially, because he is young, he is able to bounce back once reassured of his parents' general support. Still, Odin urges the young Loki to not tell Thor until he feels that his brother has truly matured to the point where it won't affect his overall view of Loki. Meanwhile, some odd years later, Loki is going through weird frost giant puberty and Thor is entirely convinced that his brother is ill or mental or some thing or other. Hi-jinx ensue."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. { .I. } {In Which Odin Proves Himself An A+ Father, Really}

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt can be found [here](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/1123.html?thread=259939#t259939).

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

“You wanted to see me, Father?”

Though respectful and carefully controlled, Loki’s voice still sounds small and thin even in his own ears; but then, the Weapons Vault always makes him feel rather small. Not quite in a threatening or frightening way, but it was just awe-inspiring enough to put him on his best behaviour whenever he found himself there, burying the urge to touch and ask questions about everything. The items contained therein, trophies won with blood, by strength of arm and will and mind, are eye-catching, the room itself so ascetically grand that he can’t help feeling tiny and a little insignificant in comparison. And he feels smaller than ever this time, because Thor isn’t there with him, that constantly bold and recklessly brave presence, the perfect scapegoat should anything suddenly need to be blamed on someone.

“Indeed I did, my son.” There’s an odd sort of strain on Odin’s face as he turns away from staring at one of the many relics to greet Loki, something the dark-haired boy can’t make sense of, the usual warmth mingled with worry and something that _almost_ looks, if he didn’t know better, like _guilt._

“…Is something the matter, Father?” he asks, pausing a little more than halfway down the stairs into the Vault. Has he done something wrong? But no, Odin doesn’t look angry, and Loki can’t think of any particularly recent trouble he’s caused that would merit this sort of audience, alone with the King of Asgard in a place of power, surrounded by his trophies and weapons.

Odin waves aside the question, then holds out his hand and gestures for Loki to come and walk with him, leading the boy deeper into the Vault. “It is a father’s duty to protect his son, and that is a duty that I believe should be carried out by whatever means necessary. And there are times when keeping certain…difficult truths hidden from his child is the best means of providing that protection.”

The One-Eyed All-father pauses in front of one of the relics, and Loki finds himself looking at the Casket of Ancient Winters, that item of power which Odin had taken from Jotunheim a decade ago. He starts just slightly as Odin rests a heavy, firm, but gentle hand on his shoulder, the old man’s tone rich with a soft-spoken _gravitas._

“…And yet, there also comes a time when such protection may do more to harm than help.”

Loki shakes his head slowly, clearly uncomprehending. “I…I don’t understand, Father. What kinds of truths do you speak of?”

“On this day,” Odin says, seemingly ignoring his son’s query, “we acknowledge your arrival at the age of ten--still quite young for one of us, yet old enough to understand. Soon you will set out on your journey into manhood, and there are certain truths you must be made aware of before that happens.”

A rather bewildered frown has taken up residence on Loki’s face, but instead of asking any of the plethora of questions bubbling up inside him, he simply nods, waiting for the king to continue.

Odin’s hand tightens its grip on the boy’s shoulder, as if somehow hoping that holding on to him physically will keep him from pulling away emotionally when he hears what Odin knows he must tell him. _He is so very young still,_ the King of Asgard thinks sadly, but he knows full well that keeping this from him any longer will only cause Loki more pain in the end. Trust cannot be built on lies.

His smile is sad, his expression faintly distant, as if looking back into the past as he says, “Well you know how the Casket of Ancient Winters came to be here in Asgard, for many a time I have told both you and your brother the tale of that day…and yet, I have never told you all. For the Casket was not all that I took from Jotunheim that day.” Closing his eye briefly, he forces himself to look down and meet those vivid green eyes, watching the mix of confusion and curiosity on Loki’s face as he continues. “Amongst the rubble I found a baby, small for a giant’s offspring. Abandoned. Suffering. Left to die. Laufey’s son.”

 _Laufey’s son._ Loki silently mouths the words, his eyes gone wide, his face pale as Odin adds, to ensure that there can be no mistaking the meaning of what he’s just said, “That baby was _you,_ Loki.”

That thin shoulder wrenches out of Odin’s grasp violently and Loki takes a few hastily half-stumbling steps backwards, fear, anger, and disbelief warring for dominance in his expression.

 _“Laufey?_ The king of the Frost Giants?” The dark-haired boy makes a noise that’s probably meant to be a laugh, though it sticks in his throat, coming out as more of a choking, breathy huff. _“Impossible!_ Look at me! I’m Asgardian, and YOU are my—”

Moving with a warrior’s speed and fluid grace, Odin lunges forward, catching the boy’s wrist in a gentle but deceptively firm grasp. It’s just about the only thing about this that’s gentle, however, for there is no easy way to learn some lessons. A heartbeat later he’s hauled the boy forward, pressed Loki’s hand to the Casket of Ancient Winters, palm flat against one glowing, cerulean-shot side.

…And as they both watch, Loki’s hand turns every bit as blue as that Casket and the glow of the whirling power contained therein. Loki starts, gives a gasp, a low cry, his hand flexing and twisting, clawlike, as he tries to pull away from the box, and almost immediately Odin releases his grip on the boy’s forearm. The shuddering ten-year-old snatches his hand back, reflexively moving to cradle it against himself, then seems to think better of that. Instead he stares at his fingers in horror, watching as the blue bleeds away, his whole hand gradually changing back to the regular pale, fleshy tone he’s used to.

But not its real, _true_ colour.

He draws a slow, shivering breath and as he keeps staring, his hand starts to shake. “…I…I’m a _m-monster!”_ he whispers unsteadily, an electric jolt of panic and red-hot terror slamming into him as tears prickle at the backs of his eyes, because he’s never felt so _lost_ and helpless and alone and he’d run and run and never look back if only his feet didn’t feel heavy as stone blocks—

—And suddenly Loki finds himself engulfed in a swath of rich fabric, strong arms pulling him in for a rough but honest embrace. He can probably count on one hand the times he’s seen his fath—the All-father, the King (but not _his_ king)—be so openly demonstrative with his affection. Pats on the back or head were to be had aplenty, and hand-holding wasn’t uncommon either, but close, tight embraces like this are rare indeed; but he needs the comfort, needs something to ground him too much to be all that surprised or to push or pull away. Instead his cheek presses tight against the scale mail Odin always wears beneath his robes, his eyes squeezing shut as his arms come up to reflexively return the embrace. He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to show any kind of weakness, especially now, but he feels numb, he can’t breathe, it feels as if all the world and even the very ground he’d stood on have been jerked out from under him, and he can’t help it.

 _“No,”_ Odin says with a soft sort of fierceness, holding him close and stroking his hair with surprising amount of tenderness. “You are _my son._ You will _always_ be my son.”

There’s more than a hint of protective possessiveness there, and were he older, Loki might resist it, might resent it or at least question it. But here and now, the feeling of being _wanted,_ being claimed and cared about, is more than enough to satisfy his child’s mind and ways of thinking. The power and absolute certainty in Odin’s voice, so familiar and trustworthy, are enough to cause those seemingly-irresistible tears to cut off like a lock cutting off water in a canal, abruptly if not quite cleanly. Face still buried against Odin’s side, Loki swallows hard, blinking back the remains of his tears, then pulls away just enough to look up into that grizzled face and its single iron-grey eye. “…Why?” he manages, the question quiet and thickly spoken. “It was right after a battle, and you’d already killed all those Frost Giants that day…so why did you save _me?”_

Odin lets him pull away from the embrace, but his hand stays atop the boy’s head, keeping contact, keeping him close. “War is a terrible business, with much lost on either side. You were an innocent child, and I could not leave you to die. Even then I could see that was not to be your Fate.” He gives the slightest of smiles. “And truthfully, it is and has always been my hope that one day we can unite our kingdoms, bring about an alliance, a permanent peace…through _you.”_

Loki is still shaking beneath the All-father’s hand, still shell-shocked and semi-disbelieving, but it’s obvious that thoughts are racing behind those wide green eyes, that he’s already acknowledging and accepting and assimilating this new information, filing it away, comparing it with what he knows of himself. So far he hasn’t really noticed many differences between himself and the other children his age, though he always has been more inclined to spend time alone, to pass a day reading, to think things out rather than simply throw himself head (or fist) first at any problem that arises. None of that fits with any of what little he knows about Frost Giants--quite the opposite, rather--and yet…

As Odin watches the swift flicker of ideas, emotions, and eventual understanding in his adoptive son’s expression, those green eyes suddenly snap up, focusing on him with an almost shocking intensity. “Who else? Who else knows of this?”

“Your mother and Heimdall are the only others in all of Asgard who know.”

A shrewd looks comes over the boy’s face. “Thor doesn’t know, then?”

Odin shakes his head. “Your brother is young yet. He is still at an age where his eyes see everything in only black or white. If he were told of this now, there is a chance he would not be able to accept it, for he cannot see Frost Giants as anything but as they are told of in warriors’ tales: a dangerous enemy.”

Loki lowers his eyes, brow furrowing at the memory of Thor grinning, fiercely proclaiming his intent to kill all the Frost Giants--monsters, he’d called them _monsters_ \--when he became king. _Would Thor seek to kill me as well, if he knew?_ he wonders, hands balling into fists at his sides at the thought. Young as they both are, Thor has always been the better fighter: in their daily sparring sessions, and especially whenever their arguments or sibling rivalry devolved into an all-out scuffle that relied solely on strength, the older brother had always proved the victor. If Thor ever came after him in earnest…

As if reading his younger son’s mind, Odin tilts Loki’s head back, regaining the boy’s full attention along with eye contact, compassion and reassurance filling his words. “…But he loves you, Loki. A brotherly bond is not one easily broken, and the strength and depth of his devotion is such that I believe there will come a time when you will be able tell Thor of this without fear of any negative repercussions. But that time is yet to come, and so I strongly advise that you hold onto this knowledge for now—not because there is any shame in it, but because he is not yet ready.” Odin sees the sheen of unshed tears in his younger son’s eyes, but there is hope there as well, of an almost desperate sort. “You are closest to him, nearest his heart, and so the decision of when to tell him of this, if ever, I leave in your hands alone.”

To be accepted for what he is-- _despite_ what he is, is what Loki truly thinks, though he’s too young still to really recognise the difference--to be acknowledged, and loved, and _known,_ to be understood and still be received with open arms. The idea is a little frightening, a little off-putting, but he can’t deny that he wants it just the same.

“…Father.” That name is a lie, he knows that now, yet it still passes his lips as easily as ever. “Do you really think I will be able to tell him some day?”

That shade of sadness, regret--pity?--is back in the All-father’s smile, but again his words are spoken to comfort, and this time they carry such a weight of conviction that Loki accepts them without question:

“Blood is strong indeed, but some things--some bonds--go deeper than blood.” Ruffling the boy’s dark hair, the All-father lets his hand drop to the boy’s back, guiding him towards the stairs and up out of the Weapons Vault. “You’ll tell him one day.”

 _Though how he deals with it will be up to Thor,_ Odin adds to himself as the doors close behind them with a low-echoing boom. He has faith in both of his sons, but far-sighted as he is, even the All-father cannot see all futures.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	2. { .II. } {In Which Loki Realises His True Nature}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Though he spends the first few weeks following his tenth birthday feeling horribly uncertain of who he is and even _what_ he is, Loki soon manages to accept the truth. It takes another look at the Casket and his skin’s extraordinary and odd reaction to it, this time alone and late in the night, but it feels curiously _right,_ touching that relic. Like coming home, somehow. And that’s all the proof he needs.

Odin and Frigga are exceedingly careful not to change their treatment of him, though in actuality, if anything they become more protective. Frigga hugs him often, nearly every time she sees him those first few weeks; Odin treats him the same as ever, just as he treats Thor (or at least as much as he ever has). Both let him know through word or touch or subtle glance that they are there for him, and willing to talk should he feel the need to discuss his Jotun heritage or anything of the sort. Loki accepts these reassurances for what they are, but though their support fortifies his sense of security in the family hierarchy, as the years go by, a subtle sort of distance arises around and within him. Asgard is his home, its royal family is his family, through blood shed if not blood born, and he could never think it otherwise. Without the Casket and its undeniable effect on his skin colour, he would find it hard, even impossible to believe that he isn’t truly Odin’s child. Whatever he may look like, he doesn’t feel any different, not even when his hands, his arms, the tip of his nose, every bit of skin he can see and much more that he can’t are all a deep blue; he doesn’t _feel_ like a monster. He just feels like himself, exactly the same as he always has. So as time passes, in a way he almost forgets all about that conversation in the Vault and everything he’s learned about his origins, that uncomfortable truth.

At the same time, he can never forget. Every time Thor calls him _brother,_ every time Odin and Frigga call him _son,_ he remembers. And every time he responds or replies in kind, he perpetuates that falsehood, until he nearly believes it again himself.

And it is through this, through protecting that heavy secret entrusted to him by Odin All-Father, that Loki Laufeyson first learns to lie without blinking.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	3. { .III. } {In Which Loki Is Nearly Killed With Kindness, Also Known As Brotherly Concern}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And this is the chapter that outs me as a total fight h0r. |D

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Years later, Loki's skill as a wordsmith is unmatched and uncontested, and his inclination for finding--or causing, and then evading--trouble is nearly of equal repute (or infamy, depending on who you asked and what Loki had done to them within the past few years), when for the first time, his Jotun lineage begins to make itself known...in just about the worst and most inconvenient manner possible.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Brotherly concern is what first causes Thor to seek out the wisdom of the All-father. Of course, in truth, “asking for Father’s advice” just means the warrior-prince wants to say his piece and then be told what he wants to hear: that he’s right to be worried, that it is good and responsible of him to look after his younger brother so, and that whatever plan of action he comes up with is the best one.

And as ever, Odin is not so gracious as to grant him any of that. His oldest son has allegedly come seeking wisdom, and he will get it whether he actually desires it or not. For though the King of Asgard has sworn not to reveal all (and he would not even if he were not bound by oath, for it’s obvious that Thor still isn’t ready), what he can and will tell the boy should be more than enough.

That is, if Thor would actually _listen_ for once.

“I tell you, Father, it is not right! This behaviour is not befitting a prince of Asgard! Why does he so often seek to avoid battle by trading words instead? Why does he not take more joy in _slaying things?”_

Thor’s years of awkward adolescence are long past: pushing six-and-a-half feet tall now, his body is several hundred pounds of solid, rippling muscle. His three boon companions are much the same, though somewhat less impressive in stature and musculature; and despite her much smaller frame, the Lady Sif has proven herself many a time, and stands with them as an equal, proud and strong and of womanly face and figure, a worthy and fully-fledged comrade-in-arms.

Not so Loki.

Although the younger prince has grown a good bit, it’s obvious he still has yet to truly come into his own. His build is slight and leanly muscular, albeit inclined more towards the lean part of that than the muscular thus far--that growth spurt is still fairly recent after all, which leaves him a little oddly clumsy at times. But the framework is there, the promise of filling out at least somewhat, someday, though he’ll doubtless always be built for speed rather than brute strength. And while Thor and his four closest companions would voluntarily spend hours on the sparring grounds even after completing their daily training sessions, Loki’s interests clearly lay elsewhere.

“—And he’s still so _scrawny,_ Father,” Thor goes on, bluntly stating things that, had he heard anyone _else_ say of his little brother, would like to have sent him at them with blood in his eye and Mjölnir in his hand. “Decent stature he has now, at long last, though it does not match mine, but still his appearance seems scarce more sturdy than a maid! He _cannot_ be eating near enough at mealtimes, I believe _Mother_ regularly drinks more at the feasts than Loki, and he simply does not care for improving his swordplay! And yet despite lacking strength of arm, he does well enough in combat during those times he truly sets his mind to it, so in truth I know not what to make of it. Perhaps he is ill--some wasting sickness or some such.”

Odin, who has listened without comment to Thor’s lengthy discourse, only gives a faint, crooked little smile at his son's passion and obvious concern. “I assure you, your brother is hale as ever, Thor. Loki will come into his own soon enough,” he says evenly, and when Thor opens his mouth to protest, an eyebrow raised in warning is enough to make the prince close it again in grudging silence. “Just as it is beyond you to compel the mighty Yggdrasil to grow more quickly, you can neither hasten nor force Loki into realising his full potential.”

Wise, knowledgeable, and perhaps even somewhat clairvoyant as Odin is, Thor has to know that his father is probably right.

But that still doesn’t stop him from trying.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Loki is tired. Hardy as Asgardians are, even they have their limits, and all things considered, right now Loki’s are lower than most. But Thor doesn’t seem to understand that; he’s been pushing his brother hard of late, all but forcing him to spend extra time at the training hall, sparring until his whole body shakes with exhaustion and he can scarcely lift the sword Thor places in his hand. The younger prince gives the best excuses he can think of whenever Thor comes for him to start another of these irritating sessions, but even those most carefully-crafted explanations and justifications fail more often than not. For Loki knows all too well that when his obnoxiously stubborn brother is truly bound and determined and _so intensely focused_ on something, he never backs down, to hell with the consequences. (…Now, if only he could think of a way to turn this latest bullheaded fixation to his advantage…)

Still, despite the inevitability of it, Loki really isn’t in the mood for this today. He already works himself as hard as he can during the regular training sessions he’s required to take by order of the King himself--he does so desperately want to make himself into a warrior that Odin can be proud of, unpromising and unlikely as that seems looking at himself now, especially in comparison to Thor. And to make things worse, nearly half of these special private sessions of Thor’s are usually spent with his brother trying to ‘teach him’ new moves, the majority of which seem to end with Loki flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him as Thor demonstrates how each move should be used.

Today, Loki wants only to be left alone to pore over an intriguing set of spellbooks he’s just liberated from a dusty room on one of the palace library’s lowest levels. He’d gone alone, having learned years ago that theft, however petty or temporary, is something of which his (oftentimes selectively) noble-minded older brother tends to disapprove (especially when the ‘prize’ is something boring like another old book). Even if reaching the item promised to be an adventure of sorts, Thor was the type to make it all the way to the whatever-it-was, then turn right around and go back, empty-handed but for the thrill of possible danger and the satisfaction of knowing he’d beaten another challenge. And he made sure Loki came back empty-handed as well, levying the always-worrisome threat of _Telling Father_ should Loki take what wasn’t his. Thus, he’d decided that taking Thor was just more trouble than it was worth, and dangerous as some of the things he’d encountered in the most shadowy parts of the city were, they’re nothing compared to some of the foes they’ve faced on their adventures outside the city, and Loki is quick-witted and capable. Here in Asgard, at least, he doesn’t need anyone else’s protection.

This time had actually been a little more challenging, however, with three locked doors, a special guardian who told devilishly complicated riddles, and several tricky ward-spells just to get onto the desired floor. He’d only just returned from his venture when Thor had come around, knocking on his door and asking (funny how it came across more like _demanding,_ really) that Loki come spar with him and their friends. Loki had scarcely changed out of his dusty, cobweb-coated clothing and gotten the worst of the ash and grime off his face before Thor had let himself into the room and dragged his reluctant brother off to the training hall. But Loki could tell that today was One Of Those Days when nothing he could say would change Thor’s mind, and in truth his own mind was still too entranced by the idea of reading through those new books to come up with a decent lie anyway.

But once he’s put on his fighting gear and stepped into the training hall, all that changes. What he wanted so badly a moment ago is irrelevant, the present is all that exists for him, that burning desire to prove himself, both to others and to himself.

And yet, at the same time this is but another game, and Loki very much enjoys playing games. Especially when he just might win.

Loki is the youngest of the six warriors present, so he’s constantly had to work harder than any of them just to come close to keeping up. But he’s always fought so fiercely that he’s managed to beat all of them (save Thor, who he’s never really won against) at least a few times through a varying combination of speed, misdirection, and general combat pragmatism. Lady Sif and the Warriors Three had all learned the hard way to take Loki very seriously; nowadays they keep their guard up and fight him full-on whenever their turn comes to face him.

Sif is Loki’s opponent today, and while some might think that means that he’s getting off easy, the exact opposite is true. For although the shield-maiden wins her share of these supposedly-friendly bouts against each of her comrades (aside from Thor, of course, who wins nearly all the time regardless of his opponent), and although it’s been years since any of them have dared make even a passing quip about female warriors in general or her own skills in particular, Sif _always_ gives not just 100%, but 130% of everything she’s got in every match, regardless of who she’s fighting. Sometimes Loki thinks she actually tries even harder when she’s facing him (about 140% usually), though he isn’t entirely certain why she would. It’s possible she’s never quite forgiven him for what he’d done to her hair (it looks better black anyway, he thinks)...or perhaps, he thinks as he watches her sneak a sideways glance at Thor, she is jealous of how his brother dotes on him, how the older prince would rather spend time with Loki than anyone else, including her. Or it could be her own strange way of showing him respect—not pulling any punches because she knows what it is like to be coddled and ignored and underestimated, and she doesn’t want to put anyone else through that.

 _Well,_ he thinks as he takes up a guard position across from her, _option number two certainly sounds like the most fun._ But if he wants to know the truth (and of course he does, simply for the sake of _knowing),_ he’ll have to test it. He readies his spear--he’d insisted on using the weapon of his own choosing today, and fighting with a spear instead of a sword gives him range enough that he can strike without necessarily having to deal with close-quarters fighting, where brute strength often wins the day--and the game begins in earnest.

“Begin!” Fandral calls from the side of the room; it’s his turn to officiate, but he’s already keeping well out of the way of a fight that will almost certainly prove to be fairly nasty. Loki had managed to win his last two bouts against Sif, but only just, and both of them had come out of those matches much the worse for the wear. They’d unquestionably end up in the Healing Room again today, since none of them doubted that this time, Sif would be _serious_ about going for blood.

The instant the word leaves Fandral’s mouth, Sif is already circling, buckler raised and sword held low, set for a powerful upswing that would open him from hip to shoulder should it land. Loki merely shifts his weight and holds his polearm at the ready, keeping himself facing her head on, his eyes tracking her every move.

He surprises them all a little by being the first to take the offensive, a lunging step forward paired with a half-feinted jab with the head of the spear, which swiftly turns into a sweeping blow with its haft that would have shattered Sif’s nose had she brought her buckler up just half a moment later. Forcing the spear up and away with a jerk of her arm, Sif ducks in to loose a horizontal slash at his midsection, which he avoids by twisting away and to the side with impressive speed, bringing his spear to bear again even as he turns.

For a time they trade blows in silence, both too focused on the fight to spare any attention for speech; but for someone like Loki, that can only last so long. He lets her close, taking a glancing blow from her buckler on his forearm to give himself an excuse to put some space between them and slacken his own constant stream of attacks. Making a show of both keeping his distance from her and giving himself a chance to recover from his supposed ‘injury,’ Loki gives a quiet, thoughtful hum of confirmation.

“…As I thought.”

Already circling once more, Sif looks at him warily, and with annoyance. She’s personally and painfully familiar with his penchant for talking circles around his opponents in the middle of combat, and she has no desire to fall for the same trick yet again, so she answers only grudgingly. “What?”

“When I am your opponent, there is a marked change in your fighting style.”

Sif doesn’t halt her attempts to engage him, though he slips away from her every time, like water through cupped hands, and her reply is flat and immediate. She doesn’t care and she doesn’t really believe him either. “Really. How so.”

“You strike harder and faster for one—” This time when she comes at him, he doesn’t move back an equal distance; instead he holds his spear like a quarterstaff to deflect every aspect of her assault. “—And you strike to kill with nearly every blow.” Her final move is a fully-extended thrust aimed just slightly below his heart, which he has to scramble a bit to avoid, and she couldn’t have proven his words more true if she’d tried. “Watching you, one would think you might truly wish to kill me.”

A bit put out over proving his point so neatly, albeit unintentionally, Sif pauses to snap out a reply. “That is what is expected of us--we fight as we would any foe, else we teach ourselves to hold back when we should not.”

“Indeed. And yet when last you fought Volstagg, you did not press him on his left, though surely you know as well as I that it is his weaker side. Perhaps you’re going soft. Or perhaps…a part of you _does_ desire my death.”

Sif exhales in a scornful huff and redoubles her efforts to draw first blood and win the match. “To say that I seek the death of one of the royal family--why lay such an insult upon me? The very notion is absurd!”

Her sword fairly whistles as she brings it down, irritation and slight injury at his not-quite-accusation lending additional power to her already considerable strength. But Loki catches the heavy overhand blow, then takes a quick step forward, pressing back just so before she can pull her sword away, keeping their weapons temporarily locked. “Is it?” he says, his voice dropping to a half-murmur. “When I have something that you desire?”

“What are you—”

“Thor.” Surprise flashes across Sif’s face, and she shoots an anxious and very telling glance towards the older prince to ensure he hasn’t overheard that, or any of their conversation. But even as she looks away, and well before she can sputter a denial, Loki speaks again. “It’s obvious which of his companions he most cares for: one only need look at our past adventures, and see who it is Thor rushes to protect first and foremost above all.” He pauses a half-beat, allowing himself a brief, superior smile. _“Me.”_

Sif bristles visibly, wrenching her sword free to aim a (rather sloppy, admittedly) flurry of slashes at Loki’s legs that the prince easily sidesteps. “I neither desire nor require your brother’s protection—”

“And yet I doubt you desire that he see you only as another companion. ‘Lady Sif and the Warriors Three’--perhaps instead it should simply be 'the Warriors Four'?” Sif has to bite back what is quite literally a growl when he gives an unmistakably mocking chuckle, quiet though it is. “Isn’t that what you’ve always claimed to want, after all?”

With a snarl, she comes at him in a fury (she’s putting 160% into this fight now, at least, he finds with amusement--that last comment must’ve been a bulls-eye), and he’s hard-pressed keeping up with her onslaught. But even this is a part of his not-so-intricate plan: his true aim in all this has been to distract her, to mentally throw her off-balance and cause her to get angry and make mistakes she wouldn’t otherwise make. One good opening could be all he needs to win this--it’s happened in the past, several times, and not just with Sif but with Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral as well. Though her temper is second only to Thor’s, Sif is generally smarter than this, usually knows better than to give in to his baiting…which means this must be a particularly sensitive subject. Which makes it an even more useful psychological lever, and while Loki is fully aware that emotional attacks can backfire in a big way, it’s a chance that he has no real choice but to take if he wants to win. Sif has matured physically and is in prime fighting trim while he’s still playing catch-up, and he knows he can’t beat her in a straight-up fight at this point in time.

The gambit is working particularly well today, he thinks with a smug inner sense of pleasure--the match will be his in the end, just like the two before it, he’s certain of it--when the unexpected happens.

As he moves to deflect a glancing blow of her sword, the clumsy, coltish stage he’s going through rears its head, and Loki stumbles. A set of quick sideways steps helps him regain most of his balance--which is precisely when Sif puts that buckler to good use and hits him with a shield-bash. It forces Loki back a half-step, wobbling and fighting to keep his already-tenuous balance and hang onto his spear, the parry he’d been planning to use to catch her subsequent sword-strike now thoroughly impossible.

Leaving him off-balance, unable even to evade her next attack, and utterly defenseless at the absolute worst possible moment.

The follow-up slice of Sif’s sword will tear through his throat, and she can’t check her swing, can’t stop her plunge forward--she’d expected him to dodge, not all but fall on his royal ass--and her eyes fly wide on the realisation that there’s absolutely nothing she can do to stop this from happening. Thor is shouting something somewhere off to the side but he doesn’t have Mjölnir in hand and Sif is too fast and no one else is close enough to interfere and what will clearly happen in the next three seconds is horribly unavoidable. She’s going to spill the blood of a prince of Asgard and maybe hopefully she won’t kill him but he’s young yet and not as strong as he should be and _what if she does?_ The All-father will demand repayment in kind, or worse he’ll banish her and Thor will hate her and never speak to her again and she’ll be dishonoured and her whole family will suffer and in spite of all of that there’s still _just no way she can stop herself—_

And then, the instant before her blade takes off his head, there’s a blurring, a flickering flash of green, and with a curling puff of smoke, Loki vanishes entirely.

Sif takes a couple stumblingly oblique steps through those faint green wisps of vapour, still caught up in her unsuccessful, and now unnecessary attempt to wrest herself and her weapon from her original headlong line of attack, then spins on her heels to sweep an incredulous glance around the room. She meets the equally stunned and startled gaze of Thor, then Fandral, then Hogun and Volstagg, but though all five of them cast about the room, they can find naught to contradict what their eyes tell them: Loki is simply gone, nowhere to be seen.

Until he reappears directly behind Sif in another blurred flare of green light and smoke and, with a sweep of his spear, smashes her legs out from beneath her, dumping her onto her ass.

Sif is caught flatfooted, and goes down without the slightest bit of resistance, too surprised to catch herself or turn her fall into a roll or anything even vaguely warrior-like, her sword spinning across the floor out of reach. Loki lightly paces around her to stand in front of her once more, letting the sharp tip of his spear hover just below her chin, wary and watchful and inwardly a bit taken aback himself, because _never_ has he won one of these fights so obviously and easily.

“This match is my victory, I believe,” he says, voice calm and cool, with only the barest traces of a smirk about his mouth—though his eyes are a different story. There burns realisation, long-desired satisfaction, an almost giddy sort of glee at what he’s done, along with the portentous glint of a hunger for more. “Do you yield, Lady Sif?”

Sif’s eyes narrow at that deceptively civil tone, her jaw muscles clenching as she fights the urge to slap the spear away, sharp edges or no, or better yet grab hold of it and give a jerk hard enough to throw Loki off-balance—

There’s a faint, needlelike prickle against the soft flesh of her throat, and Loki raises his eyebrows just a fraction, his expression unruffled and intently observant. _By all means, try me,_ it says.

Much as she wants to do just that, Sif doesn’t miss that too-bright gleam in his eyes, that desire to see how far she’ll press him now that he might actually be able to do something about it, and she knows better. And he _has_ beaten her, though she can’t say for certain if he’d done it fairly or not. So she swallows her pride and the remnants of still-simmering fury and admits her defeat.

“…I yield. The bout is yours, Loki Odinson.”

The spear-tip doesn’t move for an endless fraction of a second; then Loki abruptly lowers it, that hint of a smile still just barely turning the corners of his mouth, looking first at her, then unhurriedly around at the other four. Something about that expression puts Sif on edge, makes the skin on the back of her neck crawl: subdued as it is, it’s very much a predator’s smile.

“Well then,” Loki says, offhandedly tossing the spear sideways at Hogun, who happens to be standing closest; Hogun catches it reflexively, but keeps staring, shocked and silent. “I suppose that’s enough for today, isn’t it.”

It’s tempting to try to magick himself away again, but he’s not certain he’s fully grasped the trick of it just yet and he doesn’t want to risk it and ruin this moment of victory. He gets so very few of them, especially those that are solely his own, and not at least half Thor’s.

Besides, he can feel those five awestruck stares following him as he placidly makes his way out of the room, and Loki wants to enjoy them for as long as possible.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	4. { .IV. } {In Which Thor Has An Idea}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Loki has always been particularly good with all kinds of magic, but in the days following that seemingly insignificant incident on the training grounds, he finds that his sorcerous abilities have gone from _excellent_ to _exceptional._ That moment of mind-blanking panic when he reacted reflexively, entirely without thinking, seems to have jarred something loose within him, like striking a tiny crack in a dam only to have the whole thing suddenly shatter and give way, letting everything that had once been held back pour through in a raging torrent.

And now all those hours and days and months and _years_ spent in the darker corners of Asgard’s libraries or in reading through eldritch tomes in the safety of his own quarters have finally paid off: not only does he have the knowledge, now he has an incredible amount of power to back it up. No other in Asgard can match him in this, of that he’s certain…at least, that _will_ be the case as soon as he manages to get his abilities under his full control. The power increase is so sudden, so unexpected, and thus tends to be difficult to control, with flares and ebbs that have thus far proven irregular and unpredictable.

Going to the All-father for aid, or at least advice, crosses his mind many a time, but it is an idea that he always sets firmly aside. Odin has an impressive amount of skill when it comes to magic, but _this_ power is _his,_ his own, and he alone will teach himself to harness it properly. Then, and only then, will he show Odin what he’s capable of: that what he may lack in muscle and warm charisma, he can and will _more_ than make up for with intelligence, sheer raw magical power, and sorcerous ability.

But like those extra inches in his physical frame, it’s new, something to which he’s not fully accustomed just yet, which means he’s still awkward and a bit uncertain with it. The power is there, but using it--and more importantly, controlling it and holding back from letting it all go--is nothing short of exhausting. The only answer is frequent, extended use of this new power, along with further studies, researching the correct spells to weave to help him gain and keep total control of his magic.

Attempting either by itself would be draining, but Loki’s determination to fulfill both objectives leaves him slump-shouldered and hollow-eyed with weariness, as well as ravenously hungry. For the first time in his life, he eats as much as Thor--maybe even more on days when he’s skipped a meal or done some particularly taxing spellwork--and yet he doesn’t gain so much as half a pound. If anything he _loses_ some weight, since every scrap of extra energy he can find is focused on or funneling into his magic.

And slow though it is, he’s making a considerable amount of progress. All Loki really wants or needs is a secluded area to study and practise in, some peace and quiet, and _time._

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

And it just so happens that Thor doesn’t intend to give Loki any of those things if he has his way. (And since it’s _Thor,_ he _will_ have his way.)

When the blonde warrior looks at his brother, he doesn’t see any magical breakthrough--there’s nothing particularly special or different about him outwardly (save the enormous appetite, which doesn’t strike Thor as the least bit strange since he considers it normal); all he sees is Loki looking more tired and worn down than ever, losing sparring matches right and left when he even bothers to come at all anymore. He hasn’t won since that strange bout with Sif over a month ago, but he hasn’t _tried_ to win in just as long, and what’s more he hasn’t even seemed to care.

Which is something a natural (and egotistical) fighter like Thor can’t even begin to comprehend, forget understand or try to make sense of. True, Loki typically lost far more of those matches than he won, but at least before he’d always put forth some sort of effort. And Loki had done so _well_ in that last fight against Sif, and yes perhaps he’d nearly died and no it wasn’t exactly a normal win and _yes_ Thor did rather think that using magic like that was sort of cowardly if he really thought about it, but his brother had still done well. Honourable or no, Loki had defeated Sif soundly, and in Real Battles that was what mattered. They’d all gone on enough adventures and faced enough danger to know that much.

And thinking about that, about Real Battles and all those past adventures, is what gives Thor The Idea.

So after paying another anxious visit to Odin (who again claims that even though he’s losing fights, there is absolutely nothing wrong with Loki--his talents merely lie elsewhere) Thor makes his way down to one of the seedier taverns he sometimes frequents with the Warriors Three. Loki typically manages well enough when they go out on adventures, when the stakes are for real and they are all playing for keeps. So Thor sits and drinks his way through several tankards of ale, remaining surprisingly quiet (for him, anyway) as he listens to the rumours and the stories being traded all around him, hoping to hear of something dangerous or interesting or, best of all, both.

It had taken a (possibly) serious life-or-death situation (sort of) for Loki to fight at the utmost of his abilities; perhaps all his younger brother needed to realise his full warrior’s potential was the right sort of _inspiration._

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

It’s fairly late in the night when Thor calls his friends together for a private meeting. The night air has a nip to it of late, so they gather in the fire-pit room, settling into seats around the constantly-burning blaze before looking to Thor expectantly.

And as usual, he does not disappoint.

He tells them a tale of a magic ring, strikingly beautiful, and forged with a spell woven into its very substance that caused it to attract vast amounts of gold to it like iron to a magnet. It was a hoard-maker, the keystone to wealth beyond measure. He tells them also of how the ring first belonged to a certain dwarf, and though it was taken from him once, rumour had it that the enchanted trinket had found its way back to him once again. And what’s more, this time the dwarf had used magic to transform himself into a terrible dragon, to ensure that he would not so easily lose the pride of his collection a second time. Already his hoard was reputed to be one of the largest and richest in existence, and many a brave hero had ventured out seeking to slay the dwarf-turned-dragon and claim the glory and gold for himself, never to be heard from again.

By the time he’s finished telling his story (which in fact is all of the information he has so far), all four of his comrades are sitting up a little straighter, an eager light of interest and wanderlust shining in their eyes. It’s been a while since their last adventure, and though they’ve faced down and slain fell beasts of all shapes and sizes, so far a dragon has never been one of them. There will be countless tales told of a quest such as this, especially since the dragon is becoming something of a menace, even though all the information Thor overheard places it in one of two mountain ranges on Svartalfheim, meaning it is no immediate threat to Asgard itself, if it’s any sort of threat to them at all.

“I’m in.”

“As am I.”

“And I as well.”

“And I.”

“Of course _you’re_ in, Hogun,” Fandral chuckles, giving the dour-faced warrior a dig in the ribs with his elbow. “It’s _Svartalfheim,_ and if I remember aright, you’ve something of a score to settle with those Dark Elves.”

“Oho, that’s true, isn’t it!” Volstagg chortles, ignoring the withering look Hogun turns his way. “I seem to recall that the last time our travels took us there, you left with an arrow in your—”

“Excellent,” Thor interjects, grinning at them all with pride and gratitude and a fair degree of excitement of his own. What had started as a search for a quest that would provide pressure enough to force out his brother’s latent combat talents has become a full-fledged adventure that he’s itching to start off on this very minute. “Then on the morrow, we six shall make our preparations and venture forth!”

The other four exchange subtle glances, though they anticipated this from the moment they knew what Thor had in mind. On the whole, they consider Loki an acceptable companion, and often appreciate his quick hands and sharp wits and silver tongue--it’s indisputable that he’s gotten them out of as much, if not more, trouble than he’s gotten them into over their many years of journeying across the Nine Realms. But he’s been even more withdrawn and inaccessible of late, his behaviour cold and thoroughly incomprehensible, and for all his past aid and assistance and the fact that Thor clearly thinks the world of him, they find it difficult to trust him.

“We shall look forward to it then,” Fandral remarks carefully, with a slight acknowledging dip of his head.

“Although,” Sif adds after a moment’s pause, “I’m not certain that Loki will feel the same.” She doesn’t sound too sorry about the idea of excluding the younger prince, either; of all of them, she’s the only one Loki _does_ still show a spark of interest in when they spar, though it isn’t enough to make him fight her in earnest. And that’s a blow to her pride, for though she’s bested him a dozen times since then, it’s plain that he’d let her win, which made those victories seem anything but.

“Normally we wouldn’t doubt that he would want to come along,” Volstagg pipes up in support, both of Loki and his present companions. “But…well, of late, he’s been…” He gestures aimlessly, searching in vain for the right words before looking to Fandral and Hogun for help.

“Not himself.”

An almost palpable silence falls, and every eye turns toward the speaker with varying degrees of surprise, ranging from curiosity to confusion to outright concern, because those words had come from none other than Thor himself.

When, even after the space of several dozen heartbeats, their stares don’t waver, Thor breathes a heavy sigh and waves them off with more than a hint of exasperation. “Nay, t’was not truly what I meant. Loki is Loki, as always, and I doubt not that he will wish to accompany us on our grand quest.”

But Thor isn’t like Loki. He can hardly tell a lie to save his life, and if he feels even the faintest flicker of emotion, it is telegraphed clearly through his every word and movement and expression, his face a perpetually open book. _(Yes: a picture book,_ Loki would have said flatly, _perhaps one with three or four words on every page, at most.)_ Thor’s unease is obvious, the intensity of his worry visible to all four of the warriors seated around him, and the fact that he’s so noticeably troubled makes them feel apprehensive by proxy.

“Are you certain you shouldn’t simply leave him be for once?” Fandral muses, rubbing one cheek absently. “Wanting to include your brother is all well and good, but with the way he’s been of late, I think I’d rather face down the dragon alone than try to drag him out of his quarters to face it with us.”

Fandral hasn’t forgotten their last few encounters with the younger prince. Loki had evidently decided to put up more resistance where his involvement in those private sparring sessions was concerned. Once, the familiar hallways leading to Loki’s room had somehow shifted into an entirely new set of corridors that seemed to stretch on for ages, void of doors, branch passages, windows, or any other way of marking distance travelled. Turning around made no difference whatsoever, and the door they finally came to had opened into what proved to be one of the royal library’s closed-off and long-abandoned levels…where some of Odin’s guard just so happened to be posted, as if waiting for them. Or as if Loki had known precisely where the guards would be, and thus sent Thor and his three companions there to keep them out of his way for a while.

Another time, opening his door had loosed a deluge of hand-sized spiders with a terrible sting to their bites that lingered a good while even after the spiders themselves (which proved to be nothing more than smoke and illusions when crushed) had vanished.

Attempting to knock on his door rather than simply open it had resulted in, on separate occasions, temporary paralysis, sudden inability to make or perceive any kind of sound, and a thrice-redoubled return of however much force they’d applied to the door. (Fandral, who had given only a light rap with his knuckles, had merely been forced back a few steps; Hogun had been hurled backwards into Volstagg, their combined weight leaving a sizeable indent in the wall across from the door. Fandral had held Thor back from even trying, and Sif, who hadn’t come along for any of their other ill-advised efforts, declined to make an attempt, instead simply speaking through the door, calling for Loki to open it himself. When he’d complied, the quick blink and raised eyebrows the Volstagg-shaped crater in the opposite wall had elicited made all of them briefly wonder if perhaps none of these traps had been intentional on Loki’s part…but then again, he _was_ Loki. He could have easily feigned that surprise, and none of those tricks were out of character for him. They needed only look at Sif’s midnight-dark hair to remember that.)

“Every attempt at socialisation has angered him,” Hogun says with a nod of agreement towards Fandral. He hasn’t forgotten--or forgiven--any of those unpleasant attempts either.

“Leaving my brother behind while we, his closest friends and companions, journey afield would anger him even more,” Thor states firmly, in what they all know to be his most steadfast _no arguments_ tone. “Loki comes, or none of us shall go.”

The others bow their heads slightly in acquiescence, Sif and Hogun perhaps a bit more reluctantly than the other two, but when it comes down to it, Thor is their leader, and they will follow him in spite of their own personal opinions. He is reckless and overconfident, ruled by emotion rather than logic, oftentimes thoughtless, and inclined to challenge the odds regardless of how precarious their situation may be; but for all of that he is strong and brave and _good,_ and they trust him implicitly, for impulsive as he may be, he has never once steered them entirely wrong. He stands by them, and no matter how deep the trouble his arrogance and straightforward nature land them in, he always gets them out again somehow. They are unswervingly devoted to him, and if he wants Loki to come, they’ll do everything in their power to make it happen.

“Thank you, my friends,” Thor accepts their compliance to his terms with one of his broad, infectiously bright smiles, clapping a hand on each of the two closest shoulders (Sif’s and Fandral’s) and briefly pulling them in against his sides before releasing them again. “Dangerous though it may be, the quest is a worthy one, and my brother will not refuse such an invitation. I know it. And though I do freely admit that additional information would not be amiss, that can be seen to easily enough. Remarkable as this venture promises to be, surely Loki cannot think it the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	5. { .V. } {In Which Loki Learns Of Thor’s Idea & Has The First Of Several Bad Days, And Thor Plays Whack-A-Mole}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is movieverse! _Thor_ and therefore there IS no “canon” RE: Svartalfheim and the Dark Elves …I really just Did What I Want. I do realise that in Norse mythology the Dark Elves often seem to basically = Dwarves, but that’s not the case in the Marvelverse, so I went with the latter. Dwarves have their own planet, Nidavellir.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

“This is easily the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

In actuality, Loki only thinks it’s the worst idea Thor’s had since breakfast, when he had decided that porridge was an acceptable finger-food (Loki’s fault really, since he’d been annoyed at Thor for closing the book he’d been reading and losing his spot, and had magicked away every spoon that got within six feet of his older brother in revenge); but as always with Thor, everything is relative. But it’s still a really, _really_ bad idea.

And he’s not just saying that because he’s still aggravated over the book thing at breakfast, though maybe it _does_ influence his mood somewhat towards the negative.

Of course, it isn’t the first time Thor’s made him lose his page in the middle of reading something, nor will it be the last, but Loki is more irritated over it than usual because the book in question was a book of magic in more ways than one, and one of those ways happened to be that the pages inside were different every time it was opened. He’d been on the cusp of understanding an intricate new twist to invisibility magic, something that made the user selectively intangible as well. And while he thought he’d probably gotten enough of the outline of the magical structure to make up the rest of the spellwork on his own, it was more effort than he should have had to put forward for something like this, and he had little enough time and energy to waste these days. Lately, it had been all he could do to keep his magic from taking on a life of its own, and it had still got away from him more often than he’d expected over the past few weeks.

His friends have borne the brunt of this, he knows, and he actually hadn’t meant for the various trials they’d encountered to take place…well, at least not for the most part. The endless hallway leading to the old levels of the library and the subsequent arrest by the All-father’s guards had been deliberate, as had the knock-back door, but the soundproofing and paralysis had been completely unintentional. Near as he can tell, he’d been so focused on his work that some mostly-subconscious part of his mind had taken his intense desire to not be disturbed and worked it into reality.

The spiders were a slightly different case. He’d only meant for them to be illusions, which would pass right through his friends like shadowy eight-legged ghosts, startling and cringe-worthy but entirely harmless; however, the spell had twisted itself somewhat as he wove it, and even on realising that slight shift, Loki had seen no reason to correct it. Those three idiots had no-one to blame save themselves for so thoughtlessly following Thor’s lead all the time, and if they had to learn the hard way (and literally) that blind faith could sometimes bite you in the ass, so be it. Besides, he’d found the fantastically puffy and distinctly greenish welts the ‘bites’ had left behind amusing, especially since the most prominent ones had ended up on Fandral’s cheek and Volstagg’s nose.

As expected, Thor had glowered thunderously and forced him to draw out the poison, but even so, recalling their aggrieved and shamefaced expressions brings a thin smile to Loki’s face even now.

But he is _still_ in a bad mood.

“Brother, please. I beg you, reconsider.” It is uncommon and more than a little strange to see Thor beg for anything (though there isn’t much humility to the plea at all, so it isn’t all _that_ strange). The fact that his brother is trying and failing rather spectacularly to hide what is (in Thor’s opinion, at least) quite a clever plan to get Loki to accompany them on this adventure, coupled with the others having taken the younger prince aside after breakfast to personally ask him to come along…well, Loki can’t help but be somewhat interested in spite of himself.

“Or if you will not,” Thor presses on, all traces of ‘begging’ now absent entirely, “at least tell me the reasoning behind your refusal.”

Loki releases a faint sigh of exasperation, but already he can sense that he’s doomed to be dragged along on this quest. Their father will approve of it, if he hasn’t already, and Loki simply cannot bear being left behind by his brother. He might as well tell them all what he knows.

“I recognised the dwarf and the ring in question when you first mentioned them to me at the table this morning, though I thought to confirm it so as to be absolutely certain.” After breakfast, Loki had told Thor that he would consider going _if,_ and _only_ if, Thor agreed to wait a day and leave on the morrow instead. Once he had secured Thor’s reluctantly-sworn agreement, Loki had gone information-hunting, paying a visit both to the libraries and a few of the more disreputable ale-houses in the lower reaches of Asgard (cloaked in his new invisibility spell, of course, though he’d not quite had the time to work out the intangibility part). His investigative skills were considerably superior to Thor’s, and he’d been back in the palace with a wealth of new information well before sundown, calling them all to the fire-pit room to outline their plan of attack.

“Unfortunately, it would seem that I was correct.” He paces along one side of the fire-pit before turning back to look at them all, hands tucked primly behind his back. “The dwarf’s name is Andvari, and the ring itself is called Andvaranaut. The tales told of this ring mention both it and its owner residing on Midgard, and all those who have possessed it have come to a bad end--dwarf, man, and Asgardian alike. For all its magical power, it bears a terrible curse, woven into it when the ring was created, alongside the spell that calls gold to it. Andvaranaut was supposed to have been lost forever, cast into the sea or simply destroyed, but in truth it has been reclaimed by its maker Andvari, who as you know has taken up residence in Svartalfheim.”

The others shift a little uncomfortably at the mention of so deeply-rooted a curse, especially one that had proven effective enough to earn its own legend, exchanging uncertain looks, but Loki continues without pause: “It’s apparent that Andvari has no small skill in magic, and of old would turn himself into a pike to protect his treasure. But that proved to be insufficient protection, so this time Andvari sought to change himself into a dragon…but the working of that spell went awry, and now he is unable to resume his original form.” He sweeps a glance around the group, meeting every eye for a fraction of a second but settling, lingering on Thor, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in something that is meant to be, and yet isn’t quite a smile. “It would doubtless be something of a mercy to slay him. After all…surely no one ever _wishes_ to be a monster.”

If there’s an oddly flat tone to his voice, it goes unnoticed, or at least unremarked upon; they’re all looking down at their hands or the floor, even the elder prince, still too preoccupied about what he’s told them about the ring and its curse to spare any attention for Loki himself, with his hard eyes and wry expression.

“Merciful, yes, perhaps,” Fandral says at last, and none of them are particularly surprised. Egotistical and eternally optimistic as he tends to be, he’s also the moralist of the group, always concerned about Doing What Is Right, regardless of the consequences. “And yet, do we really have the right? He has made no move against Asgard itself, and certainly sounds content to stay closeted away with only his hoard for company. Is there really any need to put an end to him?”

“Dragons are agents of Chaos, one and all,” Thor says curtly, brawny arms crossed over his chest in what is not exactly a sulk, but is almost stubbornly huffy enough to be one. He already has Odin’s blessing to venture forth for just that reason, and there isn’t a line of argument in existence that will change his mind about this now. And though the elder prince of Asgard is not a schemer even in the loosest sense of the word, he knows from past experience and gut instinct that Loki will come with him if he goes. “It is inborn, their desire to plunder and destroy, and this one is no different, whatever his form once was. Maybe not now, maybe not for a hundred years, but one day he _will_ give in to his true nature. Thus we strike now, before his strength grows any greater.”

There are nods all around, and even Fandral has to agree to that, so instead they fall to discussing what weapons and supplies and such to bring.

Again, none of them notice Loki, who is still standing at the farthest edge of the firelight and has gone oddly quiet, face pale and pensive even for him. Thor’s words, inadvertently thoughtless as they were, don’t sit well with him for more than just one simple reason. For what feels like the thousandth time, he wonders ruefully if he’ll ever be able to tell his brother The Truth, and moreover what that truth really means for himself. He can feel the magic, his birthright, buzzing beneath his skin even now, his hands are shaking with it, and he has to work to clench them at his sides and breathe deeply for a moment to hold it all in. He spends a short time weaving a few small spells of restraint, and bleeding off some of the power into some of the semi-permanent spells he’s already set in place for just that purpose. It is the work of a few minutes at most, yet as he finishes, he feels the by now familiar and fully anticipated pang of hunger. But for the time being, he pushes it aside, turning his attention back to his brother and their friends and the task at hand.

“—And it’s said that he’s claimed to be richer than the gods,” Thor finishes with a ominous scowl, clearly still talking about Andvari. That sort of claim, speaking of his people, his kingdom that way, is a sting to Thor’s pride (not that it’s especially difficult to sting his pride--there is just _so much_ of it, it makes a very appealing target). Loki recalls having heard that rumour as well: its inherent foolishness made it memorable. But when Sif and the Warriors Three don’t point out the obvious flaw in this piece of gossip, Loki takes it on himself to do so.

“Blasphemy, clearly…if it’s true,” Loki speaks up, his faint smile twisting more towards the sardonic this time. “But answer me this, brother: who could he have said such a thing to? After all, he cannot change back to his original form, and undoubtedly he is too jealous of his gold’s safety to allow anyone near enough to exchange words with him. I imagine few would be able to understand such a complicated tongue, and fewer still would be willing to risk conversation with a dragon in any case.”

“But you would,” Hogun says, speaking for the first time all evening, and the look he gives Loki is neither kindly nor forgiving. Either he’s still put out over the recent magical mischief, or he doesn’t like how Loki is actually arguing in favour of the dragon somewhat. “Wouldn’t you.”

It’s not really a question, and Loki’s smile grows a touch wider, a shade more cunning. “Perhaps,” is all he says, and keeps smiling.

“This curse,” Sif says, getting them back on-track. “I do not like the sound of it. How can we be certain that we know everything about it that may be of import?”

The others are quick to add their voices to the conversation, though as they only have their opinions, not any actual _facts,_ it’s a rather pointless discussion until Loki (the only one who really _knows_ anything about the subject) interrupts what’s shaping up to be an argument over whether they should lay claim to any of the gold at all.

“The treasure itself is untainted by the presence of the ring. Only the ring itself is cursed,” he says simply. “Thus, you may take what you like from the treasure-trove, so long as that ring is left with Andvari, or destroyed. But…”

“...‘But’…?” Volstagg repeats inquisitively, without bothering to mask his hesitance.

“Making a journey to Svartalfheim at all is foolhardy,” Loki says with a shake of his head. “The Dark Elves are intelligent, crafty in word and deed as well as with precious metals. You know they bear no love for Asgard, and after our past exploits there, they are no friends of ours. Should they find us—”

“Brother, you worry too much,” Thor interrupts with a deep chuckle. He closes the distance between them with three quick strides and wraps one thickly muscled arm around Loki’s slender shoulders, pulling him in for a roughly affectionate sort of half-embrace that is about half-headlock as well. “Adventures are not _meant_ to be things of safety. They are quests to find your true mettle, mighty deeds undertaken to prove the depths of your strength and the heights of your valour to yourself and to others! If there is no danger, no bravery required, no chances taken, what then is the use of venturing forth at all?”

Impossibly, Thor squeezes his brother against his side even more tightly as he straightens to address their friends as well, all but crushing a swift, startled exhale out of the younger prince; Thor doesn’t seem to notice his brother’s sudden difficulty breathing, and raises his free hand in a clenched fist, beaming with pride and passion and a joy intense and brilliant enough to rival a sun.

“So it is decided! We six leave at dawn on the morrow—for Svartalfheim, and further glory!”

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

The next morning they ride out of Asgard as the sun breaks over the horizon, the Bifrost a radiant, gilded prism beneath the clattering, thundering hooves of their horses. And yet, regardless of the visible excitement on the faces of the others, and despite the wind rushing through his hair as his horse tears down the bridge, rainbow sparks flying from its hooves as it seeks to match pace with Thor’s, Loki is finding it difficult to repress a sigh.

Normally, the younger prince thrills at adventures—it’s something out of the ordinary, something _interesting_ and generally fairly unpredictable, and despite his earlier arguments, once he’s actually out on one of these grand quests, he can hardly contain his eagerness for _something to happen,_ for an opportunity to do a bit of life-or-death gambling…so long as it’s not _his_ life that he’s gambling. And it never is really; for the most part, he knows he can talk or magick his way out of things, and rely on Thor to smash down all comers if that fails. So far, that plan of action has worked perfectly every time.

But he can’t deny that a part of him is already disappointed. They have the All-father’s full permission in this, and getting past Heimdall so easily is a rather lackluster way to start out a supposedly grand adventure. Additionally, his magic had given him trouble in the night, disturbing his sleep, so he’s starting out tired, which is never a good thing. Also, there’s that niggling doubt, that nagging sense of knowing that he’s _not_ fully in control, that he’s not really ready for this.

But what Thor had said the day before, about nature always winning out in the end bothers him profoundly, on a level so deep he can scarcely stand it. He’s determined to prove that wrong, to show Odin that _he_ was in the right, that Loki _is_ his son, in mind and spirit if not in body and blood. He will be Loki Odinson, and he _will_ be ready to protect Thor with everything in him should it come to that…no matter what kind of sacrifice that requires, be it his blood or honour or his very life itself.

Grim as those thoughts are, it causes the beginnings of a convoluted little plan to slither their way through his head; by the time they reach the end of the bridge, the guardian, and the teleportation room, Loki knows precisely what he needs to do, how to make this quest a truly successful one that they will (most likely) all return from.

And there’s a certain smug satisfaction to be found in striding past Heimdall without pause, being required to meet that open animosity and mistrust with nothing more than a falsely-polite nod and a superior smirk. Still, the Gate-Keeper’s golden eyes linger on the younger prince for an uncomfortable amount of time--he must have seen the chaos Loki’s magic has been creating lately, of course he has. Loki’s smirk turns a bit frosty under that continued scrutiny, and he makes a mental note: his next project, the _very_ first thing he’ll do on his return to Asgard, is to look into ways to block that all-seeing sight. Knowing he could be under that sort of surveillance at any time is off-putting, and unsettling and bothersome besides. What is life without its secrets, after all?

But Heimdall knows his duty, at least, opening the way and sending them along to Svartalfheim without any sort of challenge, just a solemn warning rife with double meanings to watch their backs.

On the surface, Svartalfheim seems inhospitable. Nothing but rust-red rocks and winding canyons and distant iron-grey mountains and the odd stretch of sand meet the eye, no life, no greenery of any sort is visible. But below the bloody stone dwells a wondrous world: for everything that lives is hidden beneath the planet’s outer shell, in the tunnels that run beneath its surface like blood vessels, arteries humming with life, veins gushing with crystal-clear water, all life literally embraced by the very substance of the world itself.

Those tunnels have proven to be death-traps for many would-be heroes. There are no maps to be had, at least no maps for Asgardian hands, and many of the tunnels often seem to change at random--a combination of the planet’s natural geologic processes and the earth-magic of the Dark Elves, no doubt. And yet, travelling on the surface for extended periods is impossible. All the water, all the possible food-sources, all the shelter from the sweltering heat of the days and the bone-gnawing chill of the nights, is to be found underground. Still, that’s Thor’s Great Plan for avoiding any encounters the Dark Elves: they’ll travel at night, they’ve brought all the provisions they can carry, and they should only be a few days’ travel from the tunnels where Andvari has allegedly made his home. Supposing that information is correct, it could work…but Loki is doubtful, and the information he’d gotten on _where_ exactly this dragon dwelt was inconclusive, spotty at best and clearly erroneous at worst.

But if Thor’s plan fails _(if,_ that’s a laugh), Loki has a much more intricate one in reserve, a masterful construction that’s bound to work, one way or another.

They set off on foot--much as it would increase their speed, the ring of their horses’ hooves on the stone would give them away. They’d’ve been swarmed by Dark Elves before they’d gone more than a mile. Thor, ever impatient and always up for a fight, had been all for bringing the horses anyway, but Loki had managed to talk him down on that point, insisting that in this case, caution was the better part of valour; they were here for the dragon, not the Dark Elves.

Asgard’s morning coincides with Svartalfheim’s evening, so they pick their way up, over, and across stony slopes and rock formations still warm from the heat of the planet’s twin suns, their glow still visible over the jagged peaks of far-off mountains. It’s not the easiest going, but it’s not too difficult either, and with his speed and agility, Loki keeps pace easily, second only to Thor himself. An hour passes without incident, then two, and Loki is starting to think that perhaps it won’t be so bad…

…And then, just three steps ahead of him, Thor suddenly leaps forward with a shout, bringing Mjölnir down with a mighty _clang_ …atop what looks to be a scaly, oversized rodent of some kind, lurking in the opening of its tunnel-home. The creature expires with a low-pitched, cut-short squawk, and soon Thor is grinning and holding up the smashed remains like some sort of bloody, gruesome trophy. Fandral makes a joke about going home now that they’ve slain the dragon, Sif rolls her eyes at both of them, and Volstagg cheerfully adds the flattened whatever-it-is to the bulging bag of provisions slung over his shoulder as Thor and Hogun (and Sif, though she’s less obvious about it) hasten onwards, keeping an eye out for more small, defenseless things to kill.

Loki closes his eyes, suddenly feeling weary beyond measure, and supposes that he should just be grateful that Thor hasn’t got it in his head to doom them all and journey to Niflheim to slay the mighty Níðhöggr.

Yet, anyway.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	6. { .VI. } {In Which Our Heroes Are Captured And Loki Orchestrates A Daring (& Rather Needlessly Complicated) Escape, Kind Of}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Unsurprisingly, the location they’d been given for Andvari’s lair is completely wrong. There’s a mountain there, sure enough, but it turns out to be riddled with scores of much smaller holes and tunnels, all inhabited by some sort of beast that looks like some unholy union of a lizard and a boar—all hard scales and razor-sharp tusks and milky-white piggy eyes. There was an entire nest of them in that crag, and once disturbed they’d proved extremely vicious, though their vast numbers and doggedly continuous attacks were the only challenge they presented for _real_ warriors such as Thor and his companions.

They’d also proven to be an excellent distraction.

The Dark Elves had been upon them before they’d known it, their skin dark as the dusk, hair pale as spider-silk--what little of both aren’t covered with intricately-wrought armour, that is. Their numbers are impossible to gauge with any sort of accuracy since the twin suns hover low on the horizon and the shadows cast by the mountain are long and deep, but even so it’s clear that the Asgardians are heavily outnumbered. Several wolfish-looking beasts are circling them as well--the Hounds of the Hunter, Hogun mutters under his breath--and the hours they’ve spent fighting off the lizard-boars have left them well below peak battle-readiness. Even so, they turn to face this new threat with an unshaken determination.

“Hold!” One figure stands out from among the rest, and at a wave of his hand, the shadowy forms circling the six adventurers pull back, slowing and subsiding into a ready motionlessness. The apparent leader of the company of Dark Elves takes another few step forward, fixing them with a steady gaze. “What business brings six Asgardian warriors to trespass upon Dark Elven territories?”

“Our business is our own, and none of yours,” Thor replies immediately. “But we shall bring you and yours no harm, so long as you let us pass without contest.”

The Dark Elf leader cocks an eyebrow at that. “That I cannot do, Thor Odinson, for all too well do we remember your past recklessness and the harm it has caused our people, accidental or no. Turn aside and return to Asgard immediately, or else I, Algrim the Strong, will be forced to take you belowground as my captives, until you settle your debt with us.”

Thor’s grip tightens on Mjölnir, and the Warriors and Sif tense in response, readying their own weapons—

“Wait, Brother!” Loki suddenly cuts in, appearing as if from out of nowhere at Thor’s side and making a grab for his brother’s arm. “I know you’ll not turn back, so let us go with them for now. As they say, we are trespassing, and already they bear a grudge against us. There is no good to be gained by deepening that resentment.” The hand Loki holds pressed against Thor’s shoulderblade is edged with the faintest of green glows, and somehow his words seem far more persuasive than usual, dropping into a pleasant, soothing murmur. “If you trust me in this, I promise to give you a way in which you can all escape with both your lives and your honour fully intact.”

Thor seems to waver visibly, but finally lowers his hammer. The others follow suit, reluctantly sheathing their weapons, which the Dark Elves make no move to take from them, surprisingly enough. Or perhaps not so surprisingly: none of them could lift Thor’s hammer anyway, and Mjölnir is the most dangerous weapon any of them possesses.

In past hostage situations such as this, Loki had always been the one who evaded capture, following at a safe distance and then freeing them when the enemy wasn’t looking. But here there’s nowhere to hide from those watchful shadows, and his magic is at one of those irritating ebbs and suddenly won’t work quite right so he can’t go invisible or magick himself away, and even if he could the Hounds of the Hunter could still smell him and would track him down soon enough. He wouldn’t survive long alone on the planet’s surface anyway. And this time, he hasn’t gone unnoticed: he’s played too large a part in calming Thor to make even a token effort to flee.

Not that he wants to. After all, _he’s_ the one who’d alerted the Dark Elves to their presence here on Svartalfheim in the first place. Because for once, getting caught is part of his plan.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Algrim’s company wastes no time in hauling their captives underground, and within a quarter of an hour, all six of them are hopelessly turned around; they couldn’t escape now even if they’d been let loose. The path they take doubles back, rising and falling and turning without any sort of pattern, and a few times Algrim or one of the others works some magic to widen nearly invisible splits in the rock, which are resealed immediately afterward. Loki watches this closely, and thinks perhaps he could manage it in a pinch, though he hasn’t studied much of this kind of magic, and he’s next to last in line and doesn’t have the best view of the working, so he’s not entirely certain of that.

As always, the tunnels of Svartalfheim are truly a sight behold. The upper levels are bland and boring, nothing on the walls save dripping moisture and thin patches of a faintly-glowing yellow lichen; but as they travel farther down, the air grows warmer, moist and green-tasting. The knee-deep pools of water they wade through and the underground lakes they pass are warm, and lit by long, trailing blue vines that cover entire walls as well as floating lotus flowers that gleam with their own internal radiance. Brightly-coloured birds sing and flicker along the edges of their vision, fish splash and leap and sparkle like living jewels, strange insects buzz in their ears and cluster around strong light sources. And set in the ceilings and along the walls and sometimes in the floor are hundreds and thousands of crystals that flicker steadily, as if containing some inner fire, and when they are of a decent size or there are enough of them, it’s as bright as daylight. All sorts of vegetation grows around these crystals, animals large and small play and prowl through the greenery, and it’s all so lush and jungle-like, it’s hard for any of them to believe that they’re more than a mile underground.

After what feels like hours of travel (and very possibly is), another imperceptible fissure in a relatively smooth rock-face is opened, and instead of leading the way onwards as he’s done every time before, Algrim turns back to face them, gesturing for them to keep moving. Once they file through the narrow gap (which Algrim ends up having to widen an extra foot for Volstagg to fit through), they find themselves inside a smallish, smooth-walled cave. There’s water bubbling in a shallow spring on the far side, and thick clumps of the same yellow lichen from before along with clusters of those luminous blue vines light the place with a dim, eerily greenish-blue glow. It’s not exactly a tight fit--there’s enough room for all of them to stand or sit, though the latter might require some compromise where personal space was concerned--but it clearly wasn’t designed for comfort, or to hold six people.

Or even five.

They all notice at almost exactly the same time, even before the entrance is closed up, and though they exchange wide-eyed worried looks, Fandral is the first to say it:

“Where’s Hogun?”

“Taken for questioning, most likely,” Loki answers, making a good show of looking more concerned about this than he really is. He’s reasonably certain the leader of this clan of Dark Elves won’t do anything rash, that he’ll want to hear what Loki has to say before they harm any of their captives, especially with someone like Algrim in a position of authority, but of course he can’t be completely sure. “Bad luck on their part, choosing him,” he says absently, moving to examine the rock wall they’d come through as best he can by the lichen’s twilight glow. Pressing his hands flat against the stone, he murmurs a few words under his breath, then gives a small shake of his head. “It’s no good. It would seem we have no choice but to wait.”

 _“Wait?”_ There’s a loud _crunch_ of cracking, falling stone as Thor slams one powerful fist backwards into the nearest wall. He is nearly shaking with rage and impatience now, and the blood and bruises on his face make his countenance fearsome to behold; he is so tall and the light was often so poor (and their captors so hostile where the older prince was concerned) that he’d bashed his forehead into more than a few stalactites on the downwards journey that’s led them here. “I stayed my hand earlier because you promised us a way out of this with both our lives and our honour, but my patience swiftly wears thin. If you mean this for some kind of _prank—”_

Loki, who has settled himself cross-legged against the wall beside the spot they’d entered, glances up and over at him, a warning in his eyes. “That promise was made in good faith, and this is not the time for accusations, Brother.” He leans back against the surprisingly warm stone, resting his hands, palms turned up, on his thighs. “Now let me work for a while, and think, and I promise I’ll come up with a way to get us out of here.”

Thor growls a bit over being given _another_ promise, though he and the others acquiesce to his brother’s request for silence, and Loki lets his eyes fall half-closed, focused on the (for now) empty air above and between his palms.

Loki spends the next few hours (at least that’s how long it feels, and there’s no way of knowing for certain) intent on his spellcrafting, forming the framework for a fairly intricate spell. It’s hard work, but then again, mind-control is tricky. He also works out the process for a viable scent-and-sound blocking spell, though that’s for a bit later. He gets it down fairly well, but finds that it’s imperfect: he can’t hold it too long, and it’s still delicate--make too much noise inside the magically-constructed barrier, and it will pop like a soap bubble.

In the meantime the fissure in the wall reopens and Hogun is returned to them, dripping wet and looking even more tight-lipped and displeased than usual. He has mud up past his elbows and a cut on the side of his head that looks exactly like the ones Thor is sporting (which means it was likely unintentional, another point to be awarded to the caves themselves), but he’s otherwise unharmed.

Thor stiffens with obvious anger when Fandral is taken next, but Sif holds his arm tightly, and in turn the prince holds his temper, though only with obvious difficulty.

But when _Loki_ is taken, Thor’s attempts at restraint fail miserably, their previous disagreement forgotten entirely in light of what could well prove a serious threat to his brother’s safety. “Hear me, villains! I am Thor Odinson, Prince of Asgard!” he thunders, shrugging away Sif’s hand as easily as one might brush away a clinging strand from a spider’s web. “Heed this well, vile fiends! That is _my brother,_ and should any of you lay a hand on him, I swear on the graves of my forefathers than you shall regret it dearly!”

Their captors appear unmoved by Thor’s threat, which makes sense considering their current situation, and they are none too gentle in dragging Loki to his feet and out into the passageway. Thor’s eyes blaze at even that minor rough treatment, and he makes to move forward, but Hogun and Volstagg are at his sides before he can take more than a single step.

“Peace, my lord,” Volstagg rumbles quietly. “Have some faith in your brother--we all must. If anyone can talk us out of this, it’s Loki.”

Thor gives him a hard look, shrugging away their hands even more easily than he’d shrugged away Sif’s. But apparently he agrees, because he subsides once more, though he continues to stare intensely at the entrance-wall long after Loki is gone.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Seeing that protectiveness from his brother warms Loki a little somewhere deep down, even as it sends a twinge of guilt through him for not being truthful with Thor in this. The fact that he’s only doing what he knows must be done and that it’s too late to change his mind now provides only cold comfort. Still, Loki can’t help but roll his eyes a little at Thor’s display, because announcing who they are like that--the sons and heir of one of Svartalfheim’s strongest enemies--would doubtless have ensured a nasty beating for him.

If the Dark Elves hadn’t already known who they were, of course.

For Loki, it proves to be less of an interrogation session, and more of a diplomatic conference of sorts, though his hands are bound behind his back shortly after he’s dragged from the holding-cell cave. He meets with Malekith, the leader of this clan of Dark Elves, in what looks to be some sort of trophy room--an obvious ploy meant to instill a sense of awe and admiration in the captive-slash-guest, though in this case it fails completely: bound hands or not, all Loki feels when he looks around the room is cunning and greedy. The room itself is a remarkable blend of magically-manipulated rock and exquisitely-detailed masonry, with a starry heaven’s worth of those fire-crystals--sunstones, Loki supposes--set into the walls and glittering from the ceiling.

“Greetings, Loki Odinson. I trust your accommodations are to your liking?” Malekith the Accursed sits on a throne of living marble that looks as if it were carved from the very earth itself, and he surveys his guest with only a passing interest showing on his two-toned face. His eyes, however, both dark as onyx, watch the young prince’s every move .

Even with his hands tied behind his back, Loki manages a passingly graceful bow. “A bit cramped, to be honest, Lord Malekith. But as we have no intention of lingering here, that should be no concern to either of us.”

“As you say. That will be all, Algrim,” Malekith drawls with a lofty wave of his hand towards Loki’s escort. “Return to you post. Our guests are well-known for their ability to find their way out of problematic situations, after all.”

Algrim bows and does as ordered without comment; Loki watches him go, and suppresses a smile. The weak-minded and regularly obedient are among the easiest victims for mind-control, and knowing that Algrim is either one or the other or perhaps even both may prove quite useful.

“Now then,” Malekith says once they’re alone, “your message said something about some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement, specifically in regards to your brother...”

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

“Brother, I know not how you managed this, but I thank you.”

 _And you will never know, if I have anything to say about it,_ Loki thinks to himself even as he inclines his head with a falsely modest smile and protests that it was nothing; he’d simply explained their reasons for being there, and Malekith had agreed that the dragon posed a significant threat and thus let them go.

In truth, their conversation had gone rather differently:

\--  
 _“My offer is thus,”_ Loki had said, meeting the Dark Elf’s flatly black eyes unblinkingly, “My brother, myself, and all four of our companions go free, along with all of our original possessions. In return, we will rid you of the dragon Andvari, and the debt my brother owes you will be considered fulfilled.”

Malekith had slumped back in his high-backed chair a little more. “That hardly seems fair. The dragon is no great concern of ours, and the destruction your brother caused on previous occasions as well as the treasures he’s stolen are not so easily paid for as that.”

“Ah, but you _should_ be concerned about the dragon.” Casually slipping his bonds with the help of just a touch of magic, Loki had begun pacing along the outside of the room, casting his eyes over the treasures lining the walls. “Andvari’s ring has extremely powerful magic woven into it. In a century, I wouldn’t be surprised if he owned every scrap of gold on this planet.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen Malekith bristle--both at his words and the way he’d run his finger over the curving bell of a golden hunting horn--but the Dark Elf hadn’t interrupted or corrected him.

“In any case,” Loki had continued smoothly, though his sharp eyes didn’t miss the further tensing of Malekith’s shoulders as his hand wandered towards a curiously-folded object, “Mighty as you are, I know your people have neither might nor magic enough to match Andvari’s, so I will sweeten the deal. We six go free, leaving with everything we came with, and in return we shall attempt to slay the dragon…and should we succeed, we shall leave its treasure untouched. As…repayment for the misdemeanors of my brother and his friends on their last few visits to your fair homeworld.”

Malekith appeared to turn that over in his head for a moment, then smiled as he got to his feet. “I agree to these terms, on one condition.”

Loki had had to steel himself to keep from taking a step back as the lord of the Dark Elves came to stand before him; as he opened his mouth to ask what that condition might be, there was a blur of motion, and Malekith’s fist crashed into the trickster’s cheek. Off-balance more from surprise than the force of the blow, Loki had stumbled back a step, catching himself on one of the many shelves lining the walls of the room.

“We must make your interrogation look believable, mustn’t we?” Malekith had said with an unpleasant sort of smile, drawing back his fist to strike again.

Only it had never landed.

It was one thing to accept the constant beatings from his brother, and even their friends; to that, Loki would submit to more or less, for a variety of reasons, not least of all because he _did_ care about them and their well-being. With his magic as uncontrolled as it currently was, fighting back at full power could, and likely would, prove more serious and destructive than he was willing to risk.

But it was quite another thing when a stranger--moreover an _enemy_ who clearly had it out for his older brother-- _badly_ underestimated his fighting prowess and thought they could get away with it unscathed.

Loki’s eyes had flashed dangerously, and though physically he hadn’t moved a muscle, he’d let loose with a silent magical bitchslap of a spell.

Malekith was not unskilled in sorcery himself; it had been simple for Loki to send him a message via astral projection while the younger prince had ‘practised his magic’ as he’d kept watch the night before. But even a mind as twisted and willful as the Dark Elf leader’s had become soft and pliable as melted wax before the furious intensity of Loki’s magic. There was a brief mental struggle during which Malekith had thrashed and flailed like a fish out of water, smashing backwards into the assorted tables and shelves and display stands, sending more than a few of those priceless objects to the floor with a clatter or a crash. Then the resistance lessened, then faded entirely, and Malekith seemed precisely as he had before…though he made no move to raise a hand to Loki again.

“Excellent,” Loki had said, pushing himself upright and turning his gaze to the trophies surrounding them. “Now,” he’d said with a wicked little smirk, “Why don’t you tell me a bit about all of these _marvelous_ treasures of yours…”  
\--

“…other! BROTHER!”

Loki is jarred back to the present by Thor’s voice, coming loud and at close-range. Looking around, he sees that their tunnel has come to yet another dead end, and at first he starts to move forward, thinking to attempt the earth-shaping spell again, but then he stops.

“Go on, then,” he says to Thor with a faint sigh, turning his face away, as if so wearied (or annoyed) by the idea of what’s to come that he doesn’t even want to see it.

Thor’s face brightens, disbelief soon replaced with hope that is also quickly discarded in favour of an eager, face-splitting grin. Then with a joyful shout, he hurls himself and his hammer forward, tearing through stone and dirt like they’re nothing more substantial than wet parchment, creating a brand-new tunnel of his own; within minutes they’re out beneath Svartalfheim’s twin suns, and the vast expanse of nothingness has never looked so inviting.

Loki can’t help but smirk a bit as he looks back at that new, roughly-hewn tunnel, finding it all the more laughable since Malekith and his people will doubtless be mystified (or maybe angered) by it. The younger prince has made certain that the leader of this clan of Dark Elves will only remember agreeing to let them go before striking Loki repeatedly, leaving the prince looking rather a mess, then summoning Algrim to drag him back to the others before releasing them all. In actuality, Malekith had struck Loki only the once, and he’s almost entirely forgotten about what had happened before he’d called for Algrim--how he’d shown Loki around his treasure-vault, and how he’d ‘gifted’ the younger prince with a few of those treasures. Loki had taken the Hunting Horn of Faerie, which summoned the Hounds of the Hunter, and had cast it into the deep, underground lake he’d been forced to swim through on his way to his ‘interrogation’ (which explained why Hogun and Fandral had come back from their own interrogations soaking wet); the horn would be found soon enough, but hopefully not before they’d slain the dragon and left Svartalfheim entirely. And as for the other item he’d taken…well, he’d been hoping to find a viable, comfortable means of transportation, and what he’d found had surpassed even his dearest hopes.

And that, the need for transportation for the treasure they’d no doubt find, had been a large part of why he’d planned for them to get captured in the first place. Of course, he’d also wanted to settle the Dark Elves’ grudge against Thor, and then there was also the need to show off his supposed diplomat’s skills to his brother and their friends, the desire to place them all in his debt and earn a bit more of their trust. Needlessly complex as it had been in places, Loki’s plan has done all of that exceedingly well.

He allows himself a slight smile as he follows his companions over the sun-baked rock, still hell-bent on completing their quest.

The _first_ half of his plan, at least.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	7. { .VII. } {In Which The Dragon Is Faced And Loki Makes An Important Decision}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~E-cookies for anyone who a) makes it all the way through this chapter, and b) catches my nod(s) to The Hobbit. ;]~~

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

“Loki, this is madness!”

It’s been four days, all filled with hard travelling, since they left the caverns of the Dark Elves behind, and at long last they’ve found the mountain crag--dormant volcano, rather, as Loki points out--where Andvari has made his lair. Their remaining provisions are scant indeed, and the possible threat of recapture by the Dark Elves should they happen to change their minds has them all a little on edge…save Loki, who only seems to have become more grim and determined as the days pass. Where often he might sigh and submit when faced with Thor’s obstinacy, now he’s squared his shoulders and dug his heels in every bit as resolutely as his older brother.

“Madness, you say? Well, I guess you _must_ be right. After all, your last plan did work out _ever_ so well, didn’t it.” The muscles in Thor’s jaws clench visibly at that, but he can’t dispute Loki on that particular point, especially since it was Loki’s silver tongue--and cunning, and magic, though Thor is unaware of those parts--that got them out of (and into) that last bit of trouble. The two brothers stare each other down for a long moment, neither flinching or blinking, until Loki adds with a dangerously intense sort of softness, “Why don’t we try _mine_ this time.”

Thor’s ‘plan’ for dealing with the dragon hadn’t really been a _plan_ so much as a death wish. He’d wanted to face the wyrm head on, simply calling it out of its cavern to do ‘glorious battle’ on the suns-cracked red clay. Loki had found it necessary to explain that dragons didn’t play fair, _ever,_ at least not if they could help it, and generally they could; Andvari would stay in the air, out of reach, and spew fire at them from above. The wealth of scorch marks covering the surrounding area bore testament to that.

Volstagg’s plan of ‘sneaking up on it’ was rejected with equal disdain. It was nearly impossible to catch a dragon sleeping, even for someone as quiet and light on his feet as Loki, and even with magic; if all six of them were to tramp down the tunnel into its lair, the dragon would hear them coming, or at least sense all that magic at work, and would be wide awake and waiting.

The Warriors, Sif, and Thor spend a moment exchanging glances, then they all look at Loki. Thor gives a still-grudging nod, and Loki half-mockingly inclines his head in return before outlining his plan in full.

“As I said, I’ll go in and awaken it slowly, then lead it out of the cavern below and into the tunnel. You’ll wait there and attack it from the sides when it comes to the spot wherever we find the tunnel most narrows. I’ll spread a net there beforehand, one woven of magic that will entangle it and hold it there. Its size will work against it in the tunnel, and so long as you’re alongside or behind it, its gaze and its flames won’t be able to reach you.”

“I like not this plan,” Thor rumbles, scowling. “ ‘Tis cowardly, and not a fair fight at all.”

“No, Brother, it’s clever, which dragons are always said to be--damnedly so. There is nothing cowardly about evening the odds or using a decent battle strategy. Even constricted by the tunnel and bound by the net, it will still be a dangerous and difficult being to kill, and in truth, I know not how long that net will hold; Andvari himself must possess considerable skill with magic to turn himself into a dragon.”

“But not enough to turn himself back,” Fandral quips, “so he can’t be that good.”

“Or,” Hogun says dourly, “maybe the transformation spell he cast is unbreakable because his magic is that powerful.”

Silence falls as they all think about that for a moment; then Loki steps forward, his tone calm and business-as-usual. “I would assume you all expected this to be difficult from the start. There’s no sense in running away now…unless you value your lives more than your warrior’s honour?” Offhanded as he sounds, it’s actually a carefully-chosen barb, a taunt meant to irritate them and sting them into action…and he isn’t disappointed. He’s answered with narrowed eyes and haughtily-raised chins and bared teeth, which he acknowledges with a semi-satisfied nod before continuing. “I’ll cover our advance with magic so the dragon won’t sense we’re coming, and you’ll wait in the cave near the net as planned. If you’ve anything to say, say it now, because once you set foot on this mountain, you are to be _completely silent._ This magic can only go so far, and if you so much as sigh, you’ll break the spell, and I shall leave you for the dragon. And don’t forget,” he says, one final admonishing reminder, “Destroy its wings first and foremost. Then even if it manages to free itself from my net, it won’t be able to fly. So long as it’s forced to stay on the ground, you may actually have something of a chance.”

“We, Brother,” Thor corrects him with a broad grin as the younger prince turns to take the first step onto the mountain slope. _“We.”_

“Yes, of course,” Loki murmurs as they fall into a single-file line behind him. He keeps walking, and doesn’t look back, all his attention focused on erasing every evidence of their approach. _“ ‘We.’ ”_

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Astonishingly enough (to Loki, anyway), they all make it up the mountain and into the cave without blowing their magical cover, and since he’s been working on it whenever it’s his turn to keep watch these past few nights, it doesn’t take Loki long at all to get the spell-woven net into place. After making certain the others are well-concealed, and that they all understand how imperative it is that they remain silent and hidden, Loki continues on down the tunnel alone. He’d worked some minor magic to maintain his companions’ cover, but for the most part, he trusts that his presence will be distraction enough to prevent Andvari from looking for any others.

…Because once again, he hasn’t been entirely honest with Thor and the rest, and neither has he outlined his plan in full.

This isn’t his first encounter with Andvari and his magic ring at all. He'd encountered the crafty dwarf once before many years ago, when the younger prince had been little more than a child…and when Loki had stolen his treasure for the first time. It was a ransom for Odin and Honir, the All-father’s brother; Thor had been off on his first adventure fighting trolls, and Loki had still been considered a bit too young to go along on so lengthy and violent a campaign, so the King of Asgard had taken him on a visit to Midgard instead. As they had walked, Loki had killed an otter to show off his hunter’s skills to his father…and they had all paid for it, almost quite dearly. Andvari had merely been a victim of circumstance, but that didn’t make him any less of a victim, though even at that young age Loki could find little enough pity in his heart for a creature that cared _only_ for gold and was content with the dull tedium of sitting alone and guarding it hour after hour, day after day, year after year. In a way, he’d freed Andvari from his treasure…though not from his greed, or his anger, as the younger prince learns on reaching the end of the tunnel and staring into the arching vault full of gleaming treasures beyond.

For _this_ hoard makes the one Loki had robbed him of years before look like so much pocket-change.

It’s as if the entire cave has been flooded with gold, coins of all sorts piled high like grain during a rich harvest, and speckled with gems and jewels, rings, bracelets, crowns, necklaces, armbands and armour, silver-runed shields and gemstone-encrusted swords. Ornate breastplates and gilded helms and intricately-wrought coats of mail line the walls along with great gold-filigreed axes and spears that are more works of art than actual weapons. Rich robes of gold and silver lamé, woven with pearls and precious as well as semiprecious stones, are cast about carelessly, spread over heaps of unwrought gold or half-buried under drifts of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. It defies quantification, really, and as a prince of Asgard, Loki is no stranger to wealth and vast riches, but this is still enough to make his breath catch, his eyes fly wide, and his jaw go slack with breathless wonder.

But awestruck as he is by this vast ocean of treasure, it’s still not enough to cause Loki to miss the fact that the dragon…is awake.

Andvari’s dragon-form is black, black as tar and oil though not near so glossy, with a wickedly serpentine head and a tail like a coiled whip. His wings are folded in tight against his leanly lizard-like body, and all told, at that moment he seems enormous, massive enough to have trouble turning about in Asgard’s grand audience chamber. Smoke rises in wisps from his nostrils and mighty jaws, filling a section of the cavern—the vault, morelike—with a red-tinted mist. And his eyes, evilly narrowed and slitted like a cat’s, burn a fiercely bright copper-tinted amber, nearly the same shade as the surrounding riches...and they are both open, and fixated on the cave’s mouth at first, though after a time they begin to slide sideways as the great fire-drake gives an ominous rumble, opens his jaws, and speaks:

“Well, thief! I smell thee, I hear thy breath, and I doth find that I know both and likest neither. Thou art hidden from mine eye, but e’en so thou shalt not rob me a second time. I know who thou art: Otter-Killer, Fish-Catcher, Gold-Stealer, Ring-Taker, Curse-Shifter!”

The tongue of dragons is a rumbling, hissing language, all blazing embers and grinding stones and wind whistling over rough, leathery wings; yet it is a speech steeped in magic, a dialect lisped by every fluttering candle, sputtered by every flickering torch, and roared by every hearth-fire. An ancient tongue that Loki knows without learning, just as he’s never been taught how to breathe or blink or make his heart beat. The fire in him flares in response, he _Understands,_ and he makes his reply in the same language, speaking from unfathomable depths inside of himself.

“Verily, Lord Andvari, thou dost flatter me, to keep me so fresh in thy memories. But I came neither for thy ring nor thy treasure-trove this time, but instead to warn thee.”

As Loki speaks, Andvari’s great red-gold eyes continue to move, slowly sweeping around the cavern, casting an eerie sort of illumination vaguely reminiscent of firelight about the cave as they move, searching for his unwelcome visitor. But Loki had expected as much; he remains invisible, using magic to throw his voice, cloak his scent, and silence his breathing and heartbeat. And he is careful, extremely and exceedingly careful, to never look at the dragon head-on; it was said that locking eyes with a wyrm let it see into your very soul, or else gave its persuasive powers of speech a firmer foothold in your mind, and Loki doesn’t care to experience either.

“Warning?” That elicits a fiery snort that is three parts anger and one part amusement. “What warning, trickster? Why wouldst thou seek to warn me?”

“Mayhap to repay thee some of what I owest thee for what passed ‘twixt us when last we met…and mayhap to save mine own life once again. For my brother doth seek to slay thee, Andvari the Black and Magnificent, and to take thy gold for himself.”

The words are a disguise, really, a distraction from Loki’s actual intent; for as he speaks, he reaches out, grasping at the braided mesh of magic he can feel coiling and covering the monstrous form in front of him, seeking to unravel the whole thing. For, skilled sorcerer or not, a dwarf would be far easier to deal with, wouldn’t he? Loki had managed it as little more than a child, so for the six of them now it would be effortless. It would wreck Thor’s Grand Adventure, but that is not something Loki is entirely averse to. He’d been all but dragged along on this quest anyway, and there would be a certain satisfaction if it could end with so simple and anticlimactic a resolution.

…And in addition, Loki is dissatisfied and even discomfited at the thought of something—some _one_ \--trapped in the form of a monster being slain outright, and for no other reason than fear and hatred of the shape they currently held. So he tugs at the entanglement of enchantments enfolding Andvari, and keeps talking for as long as is practically and politely possible; princely pride or not, Loki is never above bowing and scraping a bit in the presence of an admittedly daunting foe, and one is not outright rude to dragons if one wishes to live beyond the space of the next few seconds.

“I, thy humble servant, gave counsel that thou art a strong and mighty foe, and that thou wouldst not be so easily cheated of thy wealth. But for such fair counsel, my only reward was to be brought hither and forced to face thee once more.”

“I fear not thy brother, and needest not thy warning,” the dragon growls, slitted eyes still roving restlessly. “Let him come anon! Thou shalt witness his end, as I hath ended all other comers. But why, why turnest thou upon thine own brother so, thou Blood-Betrayer?”

Touching even a single coin of the treasure is too risky, though Loki finds it increasingly difficult to resist that impulse; the heart’s desire of dwarves, the lust for gold and gems, is a gradual, creeping illness, but powerful just the same. Only by focusing on the conversation and the magic he’s working does he resist it.

“Fie! Blood!” Loki spits, “What matter, blood, when he hath shown how little he doth care for mine own life and well-being? Didst he not prove how small a sum, that, in bringing me here to face one so vastly powerful as thyself, O Andvari, thou Chiefest and Greatest of Catastrophes?”

It isn’t working, untangling the magic surrounding the dwarf-turned-dragon. The strands of the enchantment are woven so tightly that when one is loosened, ten others are snarled hopelessly, and anything he’s managed to tug free reforms and grows taut again within the space of half a dozen heartbeats. Which doesn’t make any sense really--this _should_ work, and yet it will hardly budge. He’s gotten absolutely nowhere, and although Loki can be extremely patient when need be, with Thor as his brother he’s learned by now how to pick his battles; he knows a lost cause when he sees it.

Which means it’s back to the original battle plan.

“It cometh as no great revelation that thy brother be every inch the vile serpent that thou thyself art,” Andvari hisses, “But be that as it may, thou shalt not walk out from here with the whole of mine treasured possessions again, nor even so much as a single red coin for thy supposed troubles.”

Folly though it may be to _laugh at a dragon,_ Loki finds he can’t quite swallow the slightest of chuckles at that. “Marry, milord, I would not dream of _walking_ out—” It’s daring, but he allows himself the thrill, reaching out to snatch up a gracefully-wrought arm-band from the pile nearest his feet and flickering into visibility just long enough to toss it into the air and catch it with a smirk. “—I shall _run,_ of course.”

Andvari lets loose with a heart-stoppingly loud roar as Loki dives behind that nearest pile of treasure, then darts for the tunnel entrance, golden arm-band still in hand.

At least, that’s what Andvari sees, and accordingly surges forward after the thief, jaws snapping—while the _real_ Loki, invisible once more, quickly sidles away in the opposite direction to give the dragon room enough to chase the illusion of himself up the tunnel. Had they no history, Loki knows his plan would have a serious flaw: the dragon would simply breathe out a great column of fire that would fill the entire tunnel, killing the hidden Asgardians and likely trapping Loki inside the treasure-vault. But after what had transpired between them before, the younger prince hadn’t the slightest doubt that Andvari would want to capture him alive, to torture and kill slowly, tearing him apart and eating him limb by limb. And that desire for revenge is what causes the dragon to run headlong into Loki’s magic net, which twists and tangles about it, jerking it to a forceful and unwilling halt.

The fire-drake does spew forth flame at that, but the net has fully entangled it, and the tunnel is too narrow and its body too massive for Andvari to turn his head around enough to apply either flames or fangs to those mystic strands. That doesn’t stop him from thrashing about like a netted fish, however, or tearing at the restraints with his claws. But even so, the dragon is pinned in place enough that it makes a decently easy target for Thor and his companions.

The Warriors focus their attention on one side, Sif on the other, and though they find their blades turned aside by the dragon’s all-over thick scales, there are slightly softer patches behind its legs and at the base of its wings that are exceedingly vulnerable in a situation like this.

Thor himself goes for the wyrm’s head, of course, landing consecutive blows that by all rights should have broken its jaw and smashed its skull; but dragon-armour is not to be underestimated, for Andvari’s only reaction is a shake of his head and a vicious growl before snatching at the prince in a gnashing of razor-sharp teeth. Thor’s next blow sends its head slamming into the wall…at which point Andvari apparently decides he’s had enough. With an echoing roar, he rears his head back, and Loki blanches at the incredible force of the magic being accessed, for it feels as if Andvari is reaching down and tapping into the very roots of the volcano itself—

—And it’s proven _well_ beyond any reasonable or unreasonable doubt that this is _exactly_ what he was doing when half a moment later the mountain shudders and shakes beneath their feet like an ancient beast grudgingly coming awake after countless long centuries of undisturbed sleep; then with an explosion louder than a hundred rockslides, Andvari blows the whole top of the mountain off, laying it open to the light of the stars and the ghostly faces of Svartalfheim’s three moons.

All six of the adventurers from Asgard are thrown to the ground or else hurled into the nearest wall, temporarily blinded by the light from the explosion, ears ringing and in a few cases even bleeding. Regardless, the instant the ground stops trying to wrench itself out from under them and shattered rock stops raining down around them, they’re all on their feet, covered in dust and bruises and bloodied just a bit, but still largely hale, fully alert and taking stock of the situation and the change in their surroundings.

What had once been a tunnel is now more like a canyon, with a jagged rift twenty fathoms deep running down one side, a tracery of magma seeping up from underground at its distant bottom. The partly-visible cavern at the far end has had a good three-fourths of its roof torn away, and a sizeable portion of the floor is gone as well, leaving the piles of priceless treasure surrounded by a precipitous drop into the wide-spreading lake of fire below.

Even with the whole upper portion of the mountain gone, Andvari is still held in place by the net, though as he twists and flails in its hold, he is also unraveling the complex spell-weaving, and with surprisingly speed and effectiveness.

Loki, who had followed the dragon up the tunnel (at a conservative distance, of course), had been planning on joining in the assault if things were going well, perhaps stabbing the beast from behind or hurling some sort of magic at it; but after picking himself up and seeing what it’s doing to his net, he has no choice but to focus on that instead. For a short time, Loki even manages to re-weave the net faster than Andvari can undo it, and he nearly has it back to the way it’d been at the start when inexplicably his magic falters and slips away, not unlike a bar of soap slithering out of both hand and sight in a large, bubble-filled tub.

The young prince scrambles to find it again, though his efforts prove to be in vain; within moments, the net is in shambles, and the dragon is free.

But neither the net itself nor his efforts in keeping it intact were entirely unproductive: for when the dragon goes to spread its wings and take to the sky, only one will open even part-way, and even so the leathery flesh is torn and riddled with gaping holes. A smile of grim satisfaction settles into place on Loki’s face as he notes that Thor and the others had made good use of that hard-won time, and they’d proved that sometimes they did listen to him after all. They’ve also proved their warrior’s mettle (not that Loki _needed_ to be reminded of their penchant for using brute strength as a solution to every little problem, or their proclivity for destroying delicate things), since within a mere handful of minutes they’ve managed to so ruin the fire-drake’s wings that it can’t possibly fly.

Still, grounded or not, up-close a dragon is indisputably an extremely formidable creature, even to the bravest warrior. And when this one turns about and charges, spitting fire and driving them back down the tunnel, they have no choice but to give way and fall back. As they do, Loki catches sight of a hauntingly familiar glimmer of gold encircling one of Andvari’s mighty claws…and a chill settles deep in his gut as it dawns on him what’s actually happened here. The curse Andvari had placed on Andvaranaut hadn’t worn off as was widely thought, for the curse had fallen even on Andvari himself, trapping him in that dragon’s form. So potent was the curse that even he was not immune, the very one who first wrought that ring and weaved its curse: to destroy whoever owned it. If anything, the curse has only grown in power, glutting itself on the life-blood of those who possessed it. And now that it had returned to the very hand that had created it, every scrap of evilly-won strength that had been torn from its many owners was added to the already-considerable strength of its creator.

Too late, Loki realises all this. They’re trapped now, a precipice with bubbling, glowing-hot lava below on one side and behind them, a sheer rock wall on the other, and an angry, vengeful dragon to the front. Loki himself doesn’t even have the protection of the rest of the group—he’s easily the swiftest member of the party, and he hadn’t gone all that far from the cave-vault in the first place, so he’d been the first out of the ruined tunnel when Andvari had forced their flurried retreat. On reaching the cave, Loki had darted one way while his brother had gone the other, and, as per usual, their companions had unhesitantly followed Thor, despite the fact that it placed them with a dizzying drop into the sweltering embrace of liquid rock at their backs rather than the unscalable but nonetheless relatively reassuring wall of stone.

Weapons at the ready, the five turn to fight, fanning out in a well-practised attack formation. But Andvari is a dragon, and of course, whenever possible, dragons do not fight fairly.

 _“Impudent fools!”_ he roars, though none save Loki can hear the words in that terrifying sound. _“Ye shall know this well before thy pitiable souls art sent screaming unto the very gates of Niflheim: Andvari the Great and Gold-Encrusted dealeth in revenge above all things! Ye hath sought to restrain me; therefore ye shall taste of the bitter venom of restraint thyselves!”_

From out of nowhere great thorny vines suddenly spring up out of the ground, though not a crack shows in the stone beneath them; like Loki’s spiders, they are formed entirely of magic.

A short distance off and all but concealed behind a jagged protrusion of stone that is doubtless a portion of the fallen cave-ceiling, Loki continues his unsuccessful struggle with his own magic. The pressure he’s under isn’t helping either, knowing that he could counter a fair amount of Andvari’s mystical attack with a few of his own, if only he’d been more in-control of his power. If only he’d had more time to prepare, to learn, to absorb the necessary knowledge and work out the numerous kinks in his abilities. Instead, he’s forced to watch helplessly as his companions struggle against those spectral vines. At first Thor crushes everything that comes within range, calling down lightning to burn it away every so often, and Sif’s quick blade clears away whatever he misses; but things start to fall apart as Thor is forced to shift his attention to Andvari himself, deflecting sharp teeth, questing claws, and bursts of flame with the whirling of his hammer.

And once the prince’s back is turned, there’s an arcing whip-crack of motion from the thorny vines, and for all his weight Volstagg is sent skidding across the floor to crash into the far wall, his axe falling to the floor with a ringing clatter not too far from Loki’s hiding spot. Another half-dozen tendrils surge through that sudden gap in their defences to entangle themselves around the entirety of Hogun’s lower half; judging by the droplets of blood soon dotting the grey stone surrounding the still-struggling grim-faced warrior, those thorns aren’t just for show. Fandral turns his attention to hacking at the vines, trying to loosen them enough for Hogun to get free, while Sif is forced to divide her attention between defending them and watching Thor’s back. Skilled as she is, there are simply too many for her to turn them all away without some sort of cost, and soon her forearms are slick with blood from dozens of minor cuts, all of which burn with a throbbing, mind-numbing intensity that can only mean one thing: poison.

Even the mighty Thor doesn’t seem immune to the paralysing effects of that insidious magical venom: blood beads on his cheek from a pair of scratches, his face being the only exposed, unmailed portion of his body aside from his hands, which sport a hatchwork mess of cuts across their backs already. And the impossible is happening: his blows are coming slower, as if his strength is flagging.

And from where he’s crouched, Loki finds himself considering his chances of sneaking away unnoticed and simply leaving the others to their fates. They had all of them chosen this willingly, even eagerly, and though he had warned them of the various dangers of such a quest they had disregarded his counsel, pressing on recklessly regardless of the possible consequences. He, on the other hand, had simply been dragged along in their wake, giving his consent only after being heavily badgered.

It was a hard but undeniable truth that without his magic, there was little he could do. He wasn’t strong like the rest of them. He could fight when it really came to it, but he was a sorcerer, a magician, a wordsmith, not a warrior. Not deep down where it really counted.

And yet he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Thor, a grand and majestic figure fighting to free himself from Andvari’s magic--fighting, struggling, and for once, failing. And yet Loki finds no joy in the sight, only a hollow sort of dread and disappointment. His eyes flick the opposite way, gliding over the others as well, and with a cool sense detachment, he finds that he can only think about how really, they aren’t anything to him. They aren’t his friends. And Thor isn’t his brother.

…Except.

_Except._

Except he _is._ And obstinate, boorish, overconfident, attention-stealing idiot that Thor is, Loki still loves him more than anyone. Even if they share no blood, even if they have nothing in common, Thor _is_ his brother, his dearest friend, and undeniably the person who cares about him the most. Over the years Thor has taunted and teased and tortured him in all sorts of little (and not-so-little) elder-brother-ly ways; but when it had really come down to it, every time it had really counted, he had helped Loki, protected him, and always, always stood by him regardless of the consequences.

Now it’s Loki’s turn to do the same. To prove to Thor, to Odin, to himself most of all, that whoever and whatever he was once born as and to, he truly is Loki Odinson, and he is entirely worthy of that name.

So he steps out from behind that sheltering rock and stands firm, squaring his shoulders and digging deep, taking firm hold of the magic inside of him with both hands and refusing to let go regardless of how it burns and tries to twist out of his grasp. He just clamps down on it harder, clinging with every muscle in his body, until his arms ache and his palms blister and his fingernails begin to bleed and tear from the heat and strain of it.

Inwardly, anyway. Outwardly, the only change is how ivy-green eyes flicker to bloody crimson just briefly, and the faintly bluish cast his always-pale skin takes on for the space of three heartbeats.

And calmly, without a word, he raises his hands and freezes the dragon in place…but not with any Frost Giant Ice Magic. Instead, he slowly pulls his outstretched hands back in a _clutching, twisting_ motion, using Fire Magic to draw all the heat around the dragon away in a fraction of an instant--no small feat in the cradling cone of a no-longer-dormant volcano--and the change in temperature is so abrupt that a thick layer of frost crackles into existence around the great wyrm. And fire-drake or no, it’s still a reptile, still cold-blooded, and the sudden lack of outside warmth is enough to make its whole body go sluggish, keeping it trapped in that ice for considerably longer than would otherwise be the case.

But now Loki is done playing, and he doesn’t give Andvari the chance to recover. With a flick of his wrists, he thrusts his hands forward again and sends all that gathered heat howling right back at the floundering dragon, a roiling fireball with more than a touch of his own Fire Magic added to it. It strikes the wyrm in the chest, dead-centre, smashing it backwards off the ledge and into the lake of bubbling magma below—or nearly so. Its wings are ruined, unable to support the fire-drake’s weight and take it aloft, but through desperate flailing, they do manage to give it enough forward momentum that it reaches the opposite wall of the volcano, where it clings to the crumbling rock like a hideous, warped spider, snapping and snarling its outrage.

Loki watches, still utterly cool and collected, as it begins to scrabble sideways along the wall, working its way to a point close enough to leap back and begin its attack anew. In the meantime, he uses the minor lull in combat to almost casually extricate his companions from the subtle and sinister twists of Andvari’s various enchantments—his brother first and foremost, of course.

Volstagg has recovered enough to pick himself up and rejoin the group, and Hogun has been freed, though his steps still come a bit gingerly. The thorns are gone, but the wounds they left remain. But there are a few hanging threads of magic clinging to both Sif and Thor, since that poison enchantment is quite a bit nastier than the more simplistic ones used against the others, and Loki allows his focus to linger on removing every trace of it for just half a second too long. When he returns his attention to the dragon, Andvari is waiting for him, and finally manages to catch him in a straight-on stare. And it’s not mind-control or soul-bearing: it’s a mutual exchange, a flashing glance of their deepest personal secrets and the make-up of their very beings.

Loki’s eyes fly wide, and though it’s only for a second, the pulse of concentrated knowledge that pounds through him in that instant staggers him, the mental repercussions so forceful that he stumbles back a step, his psychological death-grip on his magic lost in that flare of seething-white information. Andvari seems to have taken it better, or perhaps it wasn’t mutual at all, perhaps it was more of a telepathic attack; but either way, it doesn’t stop the dragon from leaping across the gaping chasm, twisting in the air like a cat to land on its feet and surge forward all in one serpentine-smooth motion. Andvari reaches Loki before the young prince has a chance to even attempt any sort of defense or evasion, slashing at him with wickedly sharp talons, swatting him away like an insect. Loki goes flying backward to smash into a portion of the remaining rock wall, not far from where Volstagg had been thrown; he hits _hard,_ sees spots, then drops a good ten feet back to the ground, where he lies in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall, bleeding freely from where those claws had raked across his midriff, one arm bent at a painful, awkward-looking angle.

At that Thor charges forward with a roar of outrage, the others following his lead, as always, though Andvari wastes no time in throwing more magic at them, this time twisted into the form of more of those lizard-boar beasts they’d encountered nearly a week ago now.

Sif fights most of these, the movement of her sword so swift that it almost appears to have melted into a deadly flicker of quicksilver, reducing creature after creature to spinning puffs of shimmering dust and reddish smoke.

The Warriors fight the few beasts that get past the shield-maiden, and they also fight to keep from being entangled by those magical thorns again, bashing and slicing and hacking away at those questing tendrils, working together to beat back the mystical plants. And this time, whether it’s due to some lingering effect of Loki’s attacks or the attention required to confront the ferocity of Thor’s relentless assault, they find the thorns quite manageable; Fandral even has the breath to quip about not realising that they’d changed professions and wondering if there was an opening in Asgard for three more royal gardeners. Hogun growls that they’ll certainly have the necessary experience, if they make it out alive, and Volstagg makes a comment about preferring to join the kitchen staff if they’re to be servants. Fandral’s reply about no food ever making it out of the kitchens again is cut short by a new wave of lizard-boar creatures, and (mercifully, Loki would have thought) their focus returns to actions rather than words.

Again Thor fights the dragon itself, spinning his hammer into a whirling shield to deflect yet another blast of fire before flinging both himself and Mjölnir at the wyrm, striking its head, its neck, its chest, all with surprisingly little effect.

Loki fights for breath, and to stay conscious, and finally manages a shaky victory on both fronts. But those are merely battles, not the war, and the latter will likely be lost unless he can get Thor’s attention, which means sitting up and getting to his feet. Because lying there, he’d had another realisation, this one vastly more helpful than the last, and hopefully timelier as well.

“The ring,” he wheezes, unheard over the sounds of combat until he forces in another painful breath and then forces out a strained shout, repeating what he’d said much louder. _“THE RING!_ Thor, smash it, it’s the nexus of his power! _Smash it!”_

Feeble as that shout comes out, somehow Thor manages to hear it, or perhaps he simply gets terrifically lucky with his next hammer-strike, for it falls squarely on one of Andvari’s great claws, shattering the entire thing, both foot and ring, with a sickeningly wet-sounding _CRUNCH._ The result is immediate and effective: an awful shudder works its way through the great wyrm, then its serpentine body seems to fold inwards like a collapsing tent, albeit one with some particularly rowdy occupants still inside. It goes into a series of spasms, its limbs, head, and tail all lashing about wildly—and it loses focus on the magical attacks. Thorns and twisted creatures all slough away into ruddy-coloured ash, and now freed of those distractions, the others move to help Thor, all five closing in on the convulsing dragon, looking to end things for certain.

And all of a sudden, the dragon isn’t the only thing rippling and shaking. Loki can feel the power building, can taste it sizzling through the air and see it skipping and skittering over the stone floor, and he knows all too well what it means: Andvari won’t go down so easily, and would sooner destroy them all, himself included, with every bit of magic he can muster before he’d allow them to slay him like a beast. And that much, Loki can understand all too well. But he still can’t allow it to happen.

It hurts to move and his vision wants to blur, but though he can feel blood running down his side and making the inside of his leathers damp and sticky, he pushes himself up, away from the wall, and into a headlong dash towards his friends, who are still looking for openings to move in and put Andvari down for good.

 _“No!_ Get away from him!” Loki shouts as he runs, stumbling only once he reaches them. Thor catches him before he can fall, and moves as if to pick him up and race towards the cave mouth to get him out of the fighting, but Loki pushes his hands away.

“Loki—Brother, what—”

“Never mind, there’s no time. Get behind me!” The younger prince steps around Thor, planting himself between the dragon and the others, feet spread, lean body tense and braced—and unexpectedly, a large, warm hand falls on his shoulder. He blinks in surprise, hesitantly glancing down at it before looking up and over his shoulder into Thor’s steadfast, trusting blue eyes.

And suddenly Loki is hit with an overwhelming desire to tell his brother The Truth, because he knows he might very well die here, acting as a magical shield of sorts. He’s certain that he’ll last long enough at least to take the brunt of this final attack, absorbing or deflecting as much of that magical energy as he can--he’s simply too stubborn not to; the others will live, supposing the Dark Elves don’t go back on their part of the deal. He’s not so certain that he himself will live—Andvari’s magic is extremely powerful, and should Loki’s magic twist out of control again or falter, it could burn him up or tear him to pieces. Which means that this could be Loki’s last chance to ever really be entirely honest with Thor.

…And yet, despite the force and fervour of that impulsive urge, somehow Loki knows that this isn’t the time. Instead, he manages a thin smile before shrugging Thor’s hand off his shoulder.

“Get behind me,” he repeats a little more quietly, turning his face towards the still-rising tidal wave of swirling magic, hoping with everything in him that Thor didn’t notice the gathering moisture in his eyes.

This was a happenstance unpredicted and utterly unplanned-for. He hadn’t expected that Thor and the others would have so much trouble fighting the dragon; of course, he hadn’t expected Andvari to be quite as skilled a sorcerer as he was either, or that he’d be able to make the most of his abilities even stuck in dragon-form. But though it sends a thrill of terror through him, knowing that this might be the end, Loki’s (still not-quite-dry) eyes glow a little brighter at the excitement that something like this, something startling and unanticipated, always provides.

The mounting tension of magical energy hasn’t stopped increasing, but those increases come erratically enough that Loki feels confident about what he’s going to attempt next. He’s too cynical and realistically-minded to think it’ll actually work or make the sort of difference he’d wanted it to before, but there’s no reason not to try. Reaching out, he gives a tug here and a twist there, and for a moment, Andvari is himself again: a dwarf, not a dragon.

 _You can start again now,_ Loki whispers into the dwarf’s mind. _Andvaranaut is gone, shattered beyond repair. You aren’t forced to be a monster any more. You are free._

But the look Andvari turns on him is full of scorn and hatred, and not a little contempt as well. “Nay,” he says aloud, “Never free--and never so wretched as to require the assistance of a liar and a thief.” His body twists and warps sickeningly, and half a minute later he’s a dragon once more. _“And this time, thou shalt not escape my curse.”_ With a last shrieking scream and rush of fire, the dragon rears up on its hind legs, then hurls itself backward over the edge, into the bubbling magma below; and the instant he hits, the second his life ends, everything holding back all that accumulated magical energy disappears, unleashing it with an earsplitting howl and a deafening _ripping_ sound, as if the very fabric of reality were being torn to pieces by the intensity of the forces at hand.

Andvari has had centuries to accumulate this sort of power, to learn to control and manipulate it. In contrast, Loki is still young and generally not fully in control of his own abilities…but that only makes this more exciting, and more of a challenge, getting to match and measure himself against a fully-developed sorcerer’s capabilities.

The magic hits him like a tsunami, slashing and wrenching at his defences with hurricane-level force. The initial impact is staggering, almost enough to knock Loki backwards, but he stands his ground, keeps his good arm up and his hand outstretched, and the sphere of magic he’s surrounded them with holds, though it ripples and thrums at every lashing torrent of sorcerous power. It’s like being trapped at the heart of a star when it goes supernova, concentrated light and extreme quantities of power and force howling all around them; and yet despite the markedly increasing abundance of blood dripping from the gashes in his midriff to speckle the stone around him, and the teeth-grittingly sharp pain the constant jarring of the floor is sending up his broken arm, and the ringing that hasn’t left his head since he was slammed into the wall, and the blurring vision which refuses to clear, Loki holds fast, his concentration unwavering.

Andvari _has_ had centuries to accumulate this sort of power, but though Loki may be shamefully lacking in experience by comparison, he more than makes up for it with sheer raw talent and inborn ability. Magic, he can understand, and learning new spells and tricks has always come to him as naturally as drawing breath. It’s the one and only thing aside from lying that he’s ever been good at.

To either side of them the stone floor crumbles, following Andvari’s mad leap and crashing into the molten rock below; only the area within and behind Loki’s protective barrier remains intact, though the tremours running through it are still more than a little disquieting. The Warriors Three and even Sif huddle in the middle of the magical dome, clinging to each other to maintain their balance. Thor hasn’t moved more than a step or two from where he stood before: right behind Loki. He’s backed away only to give his brother room enough to work, and he hardly flinches as the cavern floor heaves and shudders beneath his boots. Instead, he stares in wide-eyed wonder at the mystical energies exploding all around them, a riotous outburst of colour that makes the Bifrost look dully black-and-white by comparison.

They’d started out with more than thirty feet of solid rock between them and the same sort of fall Andvari had taken; by the time that ferocious onslaught begins to die away, the ledge is perhaps an inch from the toe of Loki’s boot, the glow from the magma below outlining him with an intensely aureate light.

And as the last humming crackles of magic hiss and arch and dart away into the surrounding gloom, the barrier that had shielded them flickers and sputters out of existence. Loki's good arm falls limply to his side, his eyes rolling back into his head as he sways dangerously, then pitches forward over the edge, unconscious and entirely insensate.

In a blur of motion, Thor lunges forward, one hand snapping out, closing on his brother’s cape and collar and jerking him back away from the brink to hold him close in a tightly protective embrace; and weary as he is from the battle and the lingering effects of that poison, for once the older prince is grateful that Loki is so slim.

He eases back on that embrace after a moment, once it’s gotten through his head that Loki is safe, the dragon is gone, and they’re all alive to tell the tale, and looks down at his brother. Soot and bruises and cuts mar both their features, but those injures are far eclipsed by the undisguised pride with which Thor beams down at Loki’s pale and slack but for once relaxed and unguarded face. In that instant, somehow they both look every inch the godly royalty they are.

“Thank you, Brother,” Thor says, even though he knows Loki can’t hear him, and for once he does indeed sound sincerely grateful. Then he hefts him, gently cradling his brother in his arms like a child rather than slinging him roughly over his shoulder as he usually would, because he hasn’t missed those worrisome-looking slashes and he can see that some care should be taken here. Sif has her shoulder under Hogun’s, her arm around his ribs as she helps him along--his lower back, the backs of his thighs, as well as his backside had taken quite a lashing from those thorns, so he’s having a hard time of walking. (It would be funny if they weren’t all so tired and perhaps a bit shaken at Loki’s display of power, but Hogun’s expression, though strained with pain, dares any of them to make any sort of comment about quests to Svartalfheim and their apparent inclination towards ending with injuries to _his_ end.) Fandral supports Volstagg as best he can, though he himself sports some nasty-looking cuts on his forearms and the big man’s reeling steps are difficult to guide.

But they’ve survived, and Thor’s smile only grows wider as he leads them out of the destroyed tunnels and down the side of the ruined mountain.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	8. { .VIII. } {In Which Odin Is Once Again An A+ Father (Seriously!) and Thor Learns An Important Lesson, Maybe}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Loki comes to fairly quickly, pain jolting him awake as Thor peels a section of his shredded leathers away from his injuries. They’re only about halfway down the mountain, but the thick, wet smear of blood already slicked down one side of Thor’s armour must’ve convinced him that Loki required immediate attention. Thor doesn’t know anything of magic, and he is no healer, but he can at least bind up wounds if necessary, a task he falls to immediately.

Loki’s mouth feels dry, both his head and his eyelids seem far too heavy, and it takes him a minute to remember how to make his mouth move and form the right sounds to speak.

“…Thor…”

His voice comes out a soft rasp, as if he’d been shouting or screaming, and only after considering that for another long minute does he recall what had happened: that as that turbulent rush of magic had shrieked all around them, blisteringly hot energy just inches away trying to sear its way through the shield he’d made of his own magic, fear had fled him entirely, his mouth spreading wide in a manic grin. And as he’d loosed his magic, finally giving into it fully for once, he’d thrown his head back…and _laughed,_ howling with a wild, fierce sort of joy until his throat was raw from the heat and the strain, the sound of it completely lost, swallowed up by the roar of the magic exploding all around them.

Quietly as he’d spoken, Thor hears him. For once, he’s listening.

“Loki.” There’s an endless sea of relief in that single word; it crashes over Loki and nearly seems to choke Thor, judging by the way his mouth hangs open for a silent moment before he finds his voice again. “Brother, I feared that you were…that you would not wake up.”

Loki blinks a little, slowly and blearily, certain that his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because he can’t truly be seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. For the Thor he sees before him looks frightened, pale beneath soot and scratches and splotches of black dragon’s blood, and he sounds even worse, concerned but also honestly and deeply shaken.

And all at the thought of losing Loki for good.

Odin’s words from countless long years ago suddenly echo in his ears:

_…But he loves you, Loki. A brotherly bond is not one easily broken…_

Loki swallows hard, wavering over the decision, but it’s hard to feel any sort of dread or apprehension right now; he’s numb from adrenaline, from shock and from blood loss, and seeing that unabashedly anxious look still lingering on his brother’s face has stripped him of any remaining hesitance.

_… and the strength and depth of his devotion is such that I believe there will come a time…_

“…Thor…” He has to swallow again, begin again, because that isn’t how he wants to start. Names are too impersonal, they show no bond and are freely used by all, and he and Thor are so much closer than that.

_…when you will be able tell Thor of this without fear of any negative repercussions—_

“…Brother.” Thor will be angry, of course, because that’s generally his reaction to unexpected things, but he won’t simply leave Loki behind to die. Not after a battle like that, not after all Loki has done on this quest alone, and how much Thor must know he owes him. “There’s…there’s something I—”

But the moment of opportunity has passed; already Thor is shaking off that fear, slipping back into his usual overconfidence and inconsiderate charisma. “We shall talk later, Brother, I swear it, but I sense that we must not linger here.” He straightens as he finishes tying off the last of the bandages, a rush job clearly done by someone with little skill in the healing arts, but it should staunch the bleeding regardless, and it will hold until they return to Asgard. “We must have your wounds seen to, and despite your negotiations, I fear that the Dark Elves grow near.”

Loki coughs out a soft chuckle. “That is something you need not fear, Brother.” He’s having trouble moving his right arm (broken, he remembers with a grimace as another twinge of pain jolts up the limb), so it proves rather difficult to reach into the pouch on his left hip and fish out the item he’d filched from Malekith’s treasury for just this purpose. “Sometimes a bit of thievery is indispensable.”

Thor blinks at the folded item resting in Loki’s palm, but before he can ask what it is and how in the Nine Realms it’s supposed to help them, Loki explains.

“It’s a magical boat forged by the Dark Elves. A true treasure, one-of-a-kind. It can sail over land or through the air as well as by sea, and though large enough to hold a host of warriors, their horses, and all their equipment, it folds up, like so, small enough to fit in a pocket or pouch. I believe they had named it Skidbladnir.”

It’s fairly difficult to really and truly impress Thor to the point of speechlessness. Loki had seen it the first time he’d used magic in front of Thor (naught but a few simple pranks during a feast, but extraordinary in the eyes of a magic-less child nonetheless), as well as on that day not so long ago when Loki had nearly been killed on the sparring grounds, and also when Odin had first gifted Thor with possession of Mjölnir. This doesn’t carry the same sort of weight as any of those other things, but considering Loki’s just given him a quick and easy way out of a situation that Thor was beginning to despair of escaping at all, it’s enough to merit significant admiration.

“Will you be _Telling Father_ about this, Brother?” Loki asks with a wan smile. Thor returns the expression, though his smile is wide as ever, and full of mirth and relief. For if Loki can act like this, still thinking at least two steps ahead and speaking with the same snap and eternal dry wit as always, he must be all right.

“Of course.” He gently takes the folded boat from Loki’s hand and looks it over with wonder before turning that radiant smile back on his younger brother. “One must give credit where credit is due, and this theft was both a courageous and clever one.”

Loki instructs Thor on how to unfold Skidbladnir, which does indeed prove exceptionally roomy despite its once-compact size; that done, it doesn’t take much to convince his brother that to leave all that treasure behind for the Dark Elves would be a shame, not to mention a waste of a good quest, and since Volstagg and Hogun aren’t in critical condition, there’s nothing to stop them from taking home a tidy sum for their trouble. Thor agrees, and with the aid of Sif and Fandral, a goodly amount of treasure is soon stowed aboard. Loki leans against the bulkhead, watching as they load up and forcing himself to stay awake for a while longer, because he hasn’t forgotten the details of the deal he’d made with Malekith.

So once Skidbladnir has taken on all the treasure it can comfortably hold and moves off, sailing up through the air towards Asgard, Loki sits up a little straighter. Turning back with a slight wince, he leans over the side of the ship and whispers a spell (normally he doesn’t have to speak aloud, but right now he’s edging on total exhaustion, and saying and hearing the words helps him focus), then watches with satisfaction as a large portion of the remains of Andvari’s vault shudders and cracks. Gold and priceless jewels sparkle like snow in the sunlight as the rock beneath them crumbles and gives way, pouring them into the molten inferno that swallowed their possessor, and stone rains down as what’s left of the cave collapses. Loki leaves perhaps half of what remains of the dragon’s hoard intact, which amounts to about one-fourth of the treasure, total. It’s still a lot--a more than satisfactory weregild for the Dark Elves, he thinks with a satisfied smirk, especially since they have no way of knowing the hoard’s original size, and will most likely assume that any missing gold must have fallen into the volcano when the cave was destroyed.

And now that the final loose end has been tied off, Loki slumps against the bulkhead, letting the oncoming waves of dizzying darkness wash over him and drag him under into a welcome, pain-free oblivion.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

They receive a hero’s welcome on their return to Asgard. The sight of Asgard’s greatest warrior and his friends returning victorious from a Grand Quest is not so uncommon, but this homecoming, on a magical ship filled with gold, jewels, and all sorts of treasure, is impressive even for Thor. People going about their everyday lives stare upwards open-mouthed, then run along behind the ship, following it on foot as it heads straight for the Royal Palace.

There, the three more seriously injured members of the party are snatched up almost at once by members of the Royal Guard, who hastily carry (or in Volstagg’s case, escort and support) them to the Healing Room. Initially Thor shows a bit of reluctance at letting the still-unconscious Loki out of his sight, but the already-swelling crowd is peppering the remaining adventurers with questions, calling to hear the tale, and Thor can’t resist giving into their clamour. Soon his brother is well out of mind; he’s far too preoccupied with helping to unload—and showing off—the treasure, as well as joining in Fandral’s dramatic retelling of their adventure, which somehow ends up downplaying Loki’s role and overemphasizing all of the others. Sif’s sideways glances at the two are less than impressed, perhaps even a little disgusted, but she doesn’t contradict them, and neither Thor nor Fandral notices her silent disapproval, or her equally silent departure.

Odin’s reaction to all of this is perhaps somewhat atypical. When he learns of his sons’ return, and moreover the possibly serious condition of the younger, the King of Asgard abstains from going to meet Thor, immediately heading to the Healing Room instead. For a battle-hardened warrior like the All-father, Loki’s wounds are not truly so bad to look upon—he’s seen worse, ever so much worse, and has personally experienced worse as well. But seeing _his son_ in such dire shape makes it harder somehow, for it is something he had hoped never to see, even if he’d always known that such a hope was one doomed from the start for a number of reasons.

Frigga is there already, tenderly wiping the worst of the dirt from Loki’s face with a damp cloth now that his wounds have been seen to. As Odin enters, she’s murmuring a gently soothing sort of motherly nothing into Loki’s ear, drawing the faintest of smiles from her younger son, the only indication that he’s conscious. Asgard’s queen looks up and over at her lord husband with an anxious sort of strain in her own smile as he crosses the room, her eyes saying it all.

_He is badly hurt, but he will live._

Odin breathes a little easier at that, feeling a great deal better about several things, though there’s still a trace of sadness and not-quite-guilt; it is a costly lesson, and yet even so there are no guarantees that Thor will actually learn it. If his behaviour thus far is anything to judge by, he will miss it entirely unless it’s shoved in his face.

“Leave us. I would speak to my son alone.”

Frigga meets his eye, a subtle question on her face, then inclines her head minutely and follows the healers and servants out, drawing the ornate double-doors shut behind them.

The instant those doors swing to, Loki wearily eases his eyes open. It seems to take him a moment to focus them, but when he sees Odin sitting beside him, he’s fully alert in an instant. “Father!” he gasps, struggling to push himself up on his elbows; he doesn’t quite manage it, his face contorting as he gasps again, this time in pain, and he’s forced to lie back and stay still. “I saved him, Father,” he says, a little breathless in his eagerness to share what he sees as a triumph worthy of both pride and praise. “I protected Thor in more ways than he knows, and—Father, did I do well?” Perhaps suddenly fearful of the answer, Loki doesn’t give Odin the chance to give one, words spilling out of his mouth in a feverish rush. “I would have done it, Father. I could have. I could have sacrificed myself for him, died a hero’s death, and proven my loyalty once and for all.”

There’s a sort of desperation in his voice, a fanatic or maybe more frantic fire burning in his eyes as he looks up at Odin searchingly, clearly aching for approval, or failing that, at least a lack of reproof.

But the All-father just shakes his head in response. “No, Loki,” he says gently. Loki’s face twists with anguish before going unnaturally blank and reserved, though his lips are trembling and it’s plainly a mask that’s wavering on the edge of breaking, until Odin continues with what he was saying. “You never had to prove anything, for I have never doubted you. That aside, you are too young yet to speak of dying, be it a hero’s death or any other; and in any case, I for one am exceedingly glad that it didn’t come to that, my son.”

Finding himself named thus so easily, without the barest hint of a pause even for effect, much less due to true hesitance, is nothing new--it’s fairly common, in fact. But after all he’s been through over the past few days, it’s a much-needed reassurance, as is the way Odin is smiling down on him with what is unmistakably deep paternal love and equally-deep fatherly pride…alongside relief at the return of not one but two prodigal sons. And at that last a flood of tears wells up in the prince’s eyes, though only two slip free, sliding from the corners of Loki’s tightly-shut eyes and trickling down across his temples to disappear into his hair, cutting twin icy trails through the traces of soot still darkening his skin.

In reply, Odin’s left hand settles lightly on Loki’s head, gently brushing back his hair; his right grips Loki’s shoulder, all the fear and anxiety he’d felt at the idea of losing his younger son telegraphed clearly through those grasping fingers.

Loki draws and releases a soft, shaky breath, and though his eyes remain closed, his hand finds its way up and over to the All-father’s, closes tightly around it, and squeezes and squeezes until bones nearly creak in protest and the darkness rises to swallow him up again.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

When Thor enters the Healing Room nearly an hour later, Odin has moved to one of the long, thin windows at the far end of the chamber. He doesn’t acknowledge his older son’s arrival, doesn’t turn away from the view of the sun setting over the golden city, not until after Thor has come to stand at his sleeping brother’s bedside.

“What right have you to be here?” The All-father’s voice is ominously low and level, each word bitten out with a careful, purposeful ponderousness. There’s a slow-building anger there, looming like storm-clouds on the horizon: distant, but clearly visible and threatening nonetheless, promising of heavy rain.

Thor matches his hostility in tone as well as body language, fists clenching at his sides as he turns to face his father, squaring off just as he would for a fight in the training hall. “As much right as you. He is my brother.”

After a moment’s pause Odin looks ‘round at the warrior-prince, his gaze keen and considering, almost as if to say _And if he were not? What then?_

But Thor fails completely at catching the true meaning of that look, seeing it only as it is on the surface: a hard stare that leaves him feeling challenged, weighed, and found lacking--not a feeling that he is at all used to.

Aloud Odin says instead, “Yes, he is. And as his elder brother, you should consider his well-being more carefully.”

“I have, and I do,” Thor replies stoutly. He’s feeling rather full of himself now after hearing Fandral telling and retelling the tale of this latest quest, and he’s determined not to be placed on the defensive. “I strove to protect him as best I could on this venture, just as I always have. I did nothing differently, Father, and overall, I would consider the quest a success. We all came back alive, and with a considerable amount of treasure. You cannot fault me for Loki’s physical weakness.”

_“You—presumptuous—fool.”_

Thor’s ire rises at the insult, but even he is fleetingly daunted by the sight of his father stalking towards him, so he holds his tongue as the King of Asgard closes the distance between them.

“Loki--your brother--loves you dearly, and although his protests and attempts at persuasion would be mighty indeed, in the end he would follow you into Niflheim and beyond if you gave the word. He has always behaved thus.” Odin’s eye darkens dangerously, his words a reproving growl as he comes to a stop a mere foot from his son. “And you know this full well.”

Thor bristles, but he doesn’t deny it. He might never plan to take advantage of something like that, but he knew it to be true nonetheless. “This was Svartalfheim, Father, _not_ Niflheim—”

“And yet still your brother went along, and was grievously injured because of you— _your_ pride, _your_ recklessness, your greedy hunger for honour, glory, and adventure!”

Thor starts to speak, and is once again cut off as Odin jabs a finger at him.

“You may have told yourself that you were doing this for Loki, that this quest was for the betterment of your brother—” That accusing finger swings aside to point at the battered, lifeless-looking body of Asgard’s younger prince. “—But how can that be true when he ended up like this?”

The older prince grits his teeth in obvious, helpless fury, but he turns his face away from his brother’s unconscious form, unable to bear looking at him long. Seeing that pale, almost-too-slim form bleeding through his newly-changed bandages strikes an unpleasant chord deep within the god of thunder; it’s hard to claim that he’d been looking out for Loki when his younger brother is so badly wounded. A tendril of uncertainty, of guilt, uncurls inside him, a flicker of recall reminding him of the pang of fear and concern he’d felt on the mountainside when he’d first realised just how badly Loki was bleeding, and he takes a moment to wonder. _Had_ he really done all that he could to protect Loki? Perhaps…perhaps if he had just…

But Odin isn’t done with Thor yet.

“Still, Fortune smiled on you, giving you so devoted and talented a brother. For there is no doubt in my mind that had Loki not gone, you and your friends would have been slain by the dragon, rather than the reverse. And all because you were fool enough to go _looking_ for trouble—”

 _“BUT YOU LET ME GO!”_ Thor bursts out, anger flaring quicker than a flash of lightning.

Odin’s single eye is hard, and though it’s obvious that he is equally, if not more enraged than Thor, he holds his emotions in check and remains outwardly calm. “And what of it? You are no longer a boy! You are a _man,_ and one day you will be king! I am your father, but I cannot make all your decisions for you. And in this instance, even if I had refused to let you go, you would have gone anyway, would you not?”

Thor’s jaw clenches, but he can’t say anything to that, because all of it is true.

For a long moment, the only sound Thor can hear is the blood pounding in his ears…and Loki’s ragged breathing. And the latter, coupled with the fact that he hasn’t spoken to Loki, hasn’t seen him fully conscious since that short conversation on the ruined mountain, is what finally forces Thor to see the reality of the situation.

His father is right. What’s more, his father is right about _everything._ Originally Thor’s goal had truly been to help Loki, but somewhere along the way, his own desire for adventure and a good fight had eclipsed that goal, blocking out the importance of Loki’s advice and protests about the quest. Thor hadn’t really _listened,_ simply assuming that his fighting prowess would be enough to get them out of any difficult situations they happened to find themselves in. Instead, Loki had saved them all not once, but twice—the first time via diplomacy, the second with magic, two things that Thor has little to no skill with—and neither of those problems could have been resolved in a satisfactory manner with even a thousand swings of Thor’s hammer.

He had taken his brother--all his friends, really--for granted, and had unnecessarily endangered their lives for no reason other than the fact that he’d been bored and spoiling for a fight. He hadn’t even cared to consider what sort of effect his actions could have, or what sort of consequences he might incur…consequences that would affect others, not simply himself.

He’d been brash. He’d been arrogant. And he’d been selfish--unbearably so. And it had nearly cost his brother his life…which meant it had nearly cost _him_ his brother.

And Thor knows from the innermost depths of his warrior’s heart that there is no fight, no adventure, no treasure in all of the Nine Realms that is worth that price.

Perhaps sensing the beginnings of a drastic shift in Thor’s mentality, Odin takes pity on his eldest, his tone and expression softening a fraction, just enough for his words to sound like the advice they are meant to be rather than an outright admonishment. “A king’s duty is to do what is best for his people, which means he will avoid war if at all possible. But if war is unavoidable, then he must embrace it, for the good of those who look to him for guidance.” He starts for the doors, but as he passes by, his hand settles on Thor’s shoulder. Though Thor can’t feel the warmth or the pressure through his armour, he catches the movement in his peripheral vision, and he can feel the weight of that hand; brief as it is, the gesture is much appreciated. “Your every action should be prefaced with these thoughts: Who am I truly doing this for? Who stands to gain? Who stands to lose? And what will those gains and loses be?”

Thor remains where he is long after the sound of the doors closing and his father’s footsteps fade away, his broad, muscular frame gone as still as a statue as he gazes intently on the pallid, motionless form of the beloved brother he’d come so very close to losing. And as he stands and stares, Thor does something that would surprise Loki, were he awake to see it:

He puts aside any interest in weapons, combat, his friends, and any sort of adventure, lets his eyes fall half-closed, bows his head consideringly…and _thinks._ Long, hard, and slowly, but deep—deeper than the farthest-reaching roots of Yggdrasil.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	9. { .IX. } {In Which Loki Goes Through Frost Giant Menopause, Sort Of, & Thor Still Kind Of Fails At Understanding Everything In General}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

For Loki, what had happened on their quest to Svartalfheim only seems to have exacerbated his problems. He recovers quickly thanks to all the healing magic used on him, which he’s mildly surprised to find resonates with his own somehow, increasing the effectiveness significantly. Yet his magic is still as hard to control as before, the only difference being that now it doesn’t fade out at random. Now, it’s perpetually present…and _active._

This particular change manifests itself largely in relation to his body temperature. For all his life, as long as he can remember, he’s almost always felt comfortably warm: not hot, and certainly not cold. Late at night he might slip away into the lower levels of the library or even the weapons vault, seeking somewhere a little cooler, a place more open and less close and stifling than his rooms sometimes felt on long summer evenings, and somewhere dry as well, since humidity made the ends of his hair curl in a most unmanageable fashion.

But now, for the first time, he wakes in the middle of the night covered in a sheen of sweat--at times so hot he can scarcely gasp in breath enough to find even a middling relief, and at others so cold he almost thinks his chattering teeth might shatter themselves with the force of their clacking. On the worst nights, he wakes multiple times, sometimes nearly every hour on the hour, and what was unbearable heat the hour before can easily shift into bone-deep chills the next time, or might instead remain the same; there is no pattern to this either.

Even worse than that strange and sporadic discomfort, he finds that if anyone touches any part of his skin directly, there’s a high chance that they’ll end up with a moderately severe case of frostbite. It isn’t _always,_ at least not most of the time, just when he has one of those peculiar temperature fluxes, and at first he had thought it was only an issue during the cold ones, but that _clearly_ isn’t right because sometimes he finds he’s frozen book pages together even during the hot ones. And after all, better safe than sorry. It isn’t as if he’s particularly partial or prone to regular physical contact anyway, and while he doubts that brushing arms with anyone would prove fatal, he has proven to be decidedly unlucky in many instances, particularly where things of this magnitude are involved. All told, it is simply better not to risk it…especially considering the way he learns it is a danger in the first place.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

He’s in the process of reaching for the serpent-green silk dressing gown he intends to wear over his plain linen bedclothes, clothing himself a bit more appropriately in anticipation of finally being allowed to leave the Healing Room for his own chambers, when she comes to see him.

This is not Sif’s first visit to his sickbed, though it is her first unaccompanied by Thor or the Warriors, and he can’t help but raise an eyebrow as she steps through the doorway alone. He hasn’t been confined to the Healing Room for all that long--it’s nearing the end of his fourth day, and while he’s still tired and sore and his arm aches when he moves it wrong (or much at all really), he’s hale enough to continue his recovery in his own rooms, without all the constant care and supervision. So there’s no cause for concern, no practical reason for her to stop in to see him like this, which means the warrior-maid receives Loki’s standard drily distant wit.

“Visiting all on your own? That’s not like you.” Robe in hand, the prince shifts in bed, moving towards sitting on its edge, each movement careful but purposeful. He doesn’t bother looking her way even as he continues to speak to her. “I suppose you must be anxious to see me well again so that you might have another chance at being the one to place me here, as per usual. Regrettably, the only battle I can offer you for the time being is one of wit and words.” His other eyebrow joins the first, and now he does send a pointedly bland, sideways glance her way. “Pity. Let us hope that you won’t prove to be _too_ much of a poor loser on that front.”

It’s pure reflex to bristle a little at that sort of barb, but otherwise Sif doesn’t respond to his baiting. She’d come here for a specific reason, and having another row with Asgard’s younger prince is not the order of the day. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“I didn’t come for a fight, be it of words or otherwise. I came to…” Her mouth twists as she hesitates, obviously not pleased with what her warrior’s sense of honour is forcing her to say and do here. “To make amends for allowing Fandral and Thor’s account of our quest to spread—”

The dark-haired prince cuts her off with a dismissive wave of his good hand. Gossip spreads like a malignant disease, swift and highly communicable; even here in the Healing Room, Loki knows all about _Thor and the Death of the Great Wyrm Andvari,_ and while he denies feeling anything about being so left out of every telling he’s overheard thus far, deep down he knows that’s another lie. Truly, he feels nothing-- _literally_ nothing, as if a dark, bottomless hole had opened up inside of him, swallowing all emotions even abstractly related to the issue. But if he could feel anything about it other than that calmly numb emptiness, surprise would certainly not be among the emotions he would be feeling. _Of course_ Thor would take all the credit, or at least wouldn’t refuse if it were attributed to him. _Of course_ Loki would remain in the shadows, unacknowledged and ignored. It had always been thus, save when the ‘credit’ for a deed came out looking a good deal more like _blame,_ which was when it most often came to roost with Loki.

Of course, of course.

Which is why Loki stops Sif’s confession of sorts short with that careless gesture.

“Speak whatever apologies your conscience dictates you must in order to assuage your guilt, Lady Sif,” he says with a small but still clearly sardonic smile. “Though if you truly seek to make reparations, you shall have to do better than that. After all, talk is cheap, isn’t it. Particularly to a warrior, who more commonly speaks with actions rather than words.”

Loki stands, turning away to shrug into his robe, then winces as his arm catches in one flowing sleeve. Pain aside, his formerly-broken, still heavily-bandaged arm won’t bend quite right, which tends to make even simple tasks such as getting dressed something of a trial. He resolutely continues the struggle, though the odd angle and lack of flexibility in the limb prevent him from making much progress…until Sif rises to his challenge and takes action.

A pair of strong and firm but not ungentle hands take charge, one pressing against his upper arm, a forceful suggestion that he cease all movement, while the other adjusts and lifts the robe just so, sliding it neatly onto his arm with little effort. Loki turns his head to the side just enough to watch Sif out of the corner of one eye, his expression guarded, as if he believes her every bit as likely to grab hold of his arm and break it again as she is to truly give him aid (which is not true: he actually thinks it’s _more_ likely that she’ll break his arm, especially after all his needling). So he isn’t quite able to disguise the flicker of startled uncertainty that crosses his face as she comes around in front of him, drawing the robe closed and tying it off with the nearby sash, her touch methodical, mechanical, perhaps a little rough, and yet somehow almost maternal. His expression closes, his eyes scrutinising her face as she adjusts his collar, then moves to his right sleeve, rolling it up to check the bandage.

“That will be quite enough, milady. You’ve proven your point.” He tries to pull away, a futile endeavor, and thus decides to attempt a different tactic. “…Though you’ve also proven me correct, you know. You must truly believe that you require my forgiveness to willingly assist me so…and it was your _actions_ that convinced me of that, not your words.”

This time Sif doesn’t even tense in response, tamping down on her temper, keeping whatever anger or other emotions she feels off of her face and out of her hands. “I shall finish what I started, milord,” she says, matching his initial supercilious tone as she finishes getting his sleeve out of the way and turns her full attention to the bandage. Her scrupulous inspection reveals a loose end, and she reaches out to tuck it back under with deft fingers. As she does so, the side of her ungloved palm rests casually against his arm, pressed against his bare skin for one second, two, three—

Then she gives a pained gasp and recoils, pulling her hand away with a startled jerk, and they both stare aghast at the slick-looking patch of skin spreading across her palm, tinted blue and edging into black: frostbite.

Loki’s eyes are wide with undisguised horror, his face gone bloodlessly pale, and for a moment he stands motionless, as if frozen in place himself. The next moment finds him moving away rapidly, all but stumbling those first few steps, taken backwards in his shell-shocked haste. Yet, he recovers quickly, or more than likely simply succeeds in concealing all the physical tells of his terror and dismay.

Well, almost all.

“L-Lady Sif, I—truly, I did not mean…” He swallows hard, though dry as his mouth is, it does little to ease the strain in his throat. “It’s—it’s my magic, you see, I haven’t been able to— _control_ it recently, and I—that is—well, it’s been like this ever since our quest to Svartalfheim…”

 _Stammering,_ he’s _stammering--he,_ Loki Liesmith, the silver-tongued tactician who had talked his way out of beheadings and tipped the balance in more than one discussion with naught save a few subtle but well-placed statements or a single sly question--but that is almost to be expected. Sif and the All-father himself are the only two people he’s ever encountered with the power to render him speechless with any sort of regularity. Odin generally does so whenever he is present, through inspiring awestruck fear and an intense desire to win a father’s love and pride; Sif only seems to do strike Loki silent at the worst possible moments, when adolescent awkwardness and muddled maybe-there feelings are present and prevalent enough to choke the life out of any clever responses.

Such is the case now, though guilt, fear, and remorse weigh heavily in the front of his mind and the back of his throat as well, tasting bitterly of blood and bile. Only when his hand closes around one of the door handles does he finally does manage to speak smoothly through it all. “Stay here,” he says with a calm he doesn’t really feel, keeping his eyes riveted on the door in front of him. “I’ll send for a healer.”

Without waiting for her reply, and unwilling to risk a glance at her face, the younger prince whisks out of the room. He’s running away, sure enough, but the blow to whatever is left of his princely pride is infinitely preferable to the possibility of seeing scorn or disgust or even fear on Sif’s face at this moment. Any other time, he would welcome it, want it, even work for such a response, simply because it _was_ a response, and one meant only for him; but not now, not when it has so much to do with his true identity, that thing which he’s come to consider his darkest secret.

Better to run, and to turn his back before he has to watch her turn hers. So flee he does.

And this time he proves true to his word. The healer arrives within minutes, moving without question to tend the hand that the still rather stunned-looking Sif is holding clutched close to her chest, an unconscious attempt at protection and restoration.

But Loki himself doesn’t come back.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Thor had begun to worry about his brother years ago, when even from a young age Loki had proved far more interested in books and studying rather than battle and bloodshed; but when Loki withdraws even further into those books (something Asgard’s first prince hadn’t thought possible) on their return from Svartalfheim, that worry is magnified several times over. Particularly since Thor’s still feeling thoroughly guilty about his treatment of Loki after that latest yelling match with Odin. And to make things worse, Thor finds that Loki flinches visibly whenever anyone moves within a few feet of him, drawing back rather obviously from any attempts at physical contact. Clearly all that time spent alone, all that _reading,_ has turned his brother’s head.

As far as his own mental turns go, Thor is still working through everything Odin had said to him, trying to implement it, to put it into practise, though he finds, inevitably, that it isn’t easy to change who you are, and it’s outright impossible to do so overnight or in a handful of days. So while he _does_ want to apologise to Loki for dragging him along on such a dangerous and unnecessary quest, and much as he knows he needs to make reparations for Fandral’s and his own fallacious retelling of that quest, Thor hasn’t been able to bring himself to that point yet. Every time they meet, he finds himself slipping back into his old ways…because much as he knows that he _must_ change at least somewhat if he’s ever to be a worthy king and a good brother, deep down, there are certain things that he doesn’t ever want to change. And his relationship with Loki, the unconditional love and boundless devotion and deep affection they share, is one of those things. And yet, they _are_ brothers, and thus there is a deep-seated rivalry there as well that occludes the devotion and the outward affection, if not quite the love, at certain times: Thor can’t allow himself to show any weakness or the slightest waver in purpose.

…And yet, this sudden and all but total avoidance is something perplexing and new. Loki had always been somewhat reticent, and the memory of his resistance to joining in the extra training sessions is still fresh in Thor’s mind; but this, he can tell, is _different_ somehow. Then Loki had been far more self-assured and poised, purposeful and pleased when his tricks played out well. Now…now, he recoils, then simply magicks himself away without a word, looking weary and wary and pale as ash. There are no tricks this time, just avoidance, plain and simple.

And somehow, because of that difference, Thor finds that he can’t leave Loki alone any longer, regardless of his own issues and uncertainties. Whatever problems he’s working through himself, his brother’s well-being and happiness are still paramount in Thor’s mind, so long as there’s even the smallest chance that he might be able to do something about all this.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

“Brother, I shall never understand how you can read so many books of this sort.”

His expression guarded, Loki looks up from a well-worn copy of _Capslock’s Compleet Lexicon of Majik with Precepts for the Wise_ …only to find one corner of his mouth inching upwards as he watches his older brother, scowling in intense concentration, fan through an exceptionally brilliant but somewhat esoteric book on hermetics. “Of what sort, Brother?” he asks quietly, his voice rough from disuse; until now, he hadn’t spoken all day, or the day before that either. “What fault do you find with Mallich’s work?”

“There are no _pictures.”_

The younger prince gives a blink, as if he wants to believe his brother is joking but knows better by now, then sighs and turns a long-suffering look up at the ceiling, but there’s a trace of a smile on his face as his attention returns to his own book. “And yet, a more in-depth perusal would reveal that it does contain a wealth of diagrams. Close enough, wouldn’t you say?”

Thor grunts, clearly in the negative, and drops that book in favour of another, a large red-leather-bound tome, which when opened reveals gorgeous images so brilliantly hued that the colours seem to leap off the pages, dazzling the eyes and capturing the imagination. Thor gazes at it long, flipping back and forth a bit, then grins, catching the book up and turning it to face his brother, holding it out confidently and commandingly.

“Here now, this is what you need. An adventure!”

Loki rolls his eyes again and turns a page in his decidedly less-flashy book, not bothering to look over at whatever picture Thor’s trying to show him. “I’ve had _quite_ enough of your adventures for the time being, I think,” he says, meaningfully resting a hand on the bandages protecting his still-healing and until-recently-broken arm. “And if I’m not mistaken, Volstagg and Hogun are still recovering from the last one as well, so you had best wait a while.” He lets that sink in for a second, then continues, “In any case, I’m surprised you’re not bored with these adventures of yours already. They’ve all started to seem the same—”

“Ah, with that I agree, Brother,” Thor cuts in, an edge of reckless excitement to his voice, his conversation with Odin unfortunately all but forgotten in the heat of the moment. “But you forget that there’s one place we have yet to venture: Jotunheim!”

Loki falters a bit at that, his throat closing up for half a second, but his head is bowed, and the thinning of his lips as well as the flicker of raw emotion that crosses his face goes unmarked by his older brother. Another half-second later, and it’s as if he hadn’t reacted at all. “Of course not,” he says, sounding poised but perhaps a bit more cold and flat than usual. “It’s forbidden.”

Thor doesn’t seem to have heard him, much less picked up on that understated shift, already too caught up in this newest idea, another grand quest. “The tales say that there is a great deal of worthwhile treasure there. We could retrieve Heimdall’s horn from the Jotnar, or visit the Fountain of Mimir and become as wise as Father—”

 _“Forbidden,”_ Loki repeats firmly, and turns another page.

Thor can’t help snorting out an amused but disbelieving chuckle at that. “Since when do you care so much about bending a few rules, Brother?”

And in reply, Loki says…nothing.

Thor blinks, a bit taken aback by the silence and lack of the usual quick, likely-sarcastic response, but he shrugs it off shortly. “Ah, Loki,” he says with a smile and an irritatingly patronising shake of his head, “I believe you simply need to fight something more _challenging—”_

“If you’ll remember, I _did_ fight something ‘more challenging,’ Thor,” Loki cuts in, his tone frosty. “Something that even _you,_ for all your strength and bravery, could not defeat by might alone.”

Sharp as those words are, they clearly leave not a mark on the elder prince, who just waves them carelessly aside, wide smile unfaltering. “I know not what has caused this latest distemper of yours, Brother, but surely it cannot be anything that slaying a few of those monstrous Frost Giants wouldn’t put to rights—”

Thor’s boisterous behavior comes to an abrupt end as he looks over at his brother. Loki has gone utterly still, neither blinking nor breathing, his face as blank and impassive as a glacier, and despite the lack of visible emotion, somehow every bit as frigid as well. Their eyes meet, and for half an instant, it feels to Thor as though he’s looking out across an endlessly wide snow-swept plain, empty but for the biting cold and the oppressive silence.

Thor’s belligerence and oh-so-casual mention of slaughtering Frost Giants is understandably upsetting to Loki, though he hides his every emotion--his fear, his resentment, his jealousy, and a shuddering sorrow that feels as if it would rend his heart in two if he dwelt on it overlong--beneath an implacable mask of icy displeasure. _How little Thor knows,_ he thinks absently as one of those chronic cold flashes suddenly grips him, temporarily stealing his breath as it digs frozen fingers into every muscle, every joint, every nerve-ending in his body; but this time he doesn’t fight the agonising twist of those wintry knives, simply accepting the cold without with slightest shiver, submitting to its arctic embrace. _How little he understands._

“Well,” Loki says aloud, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, though even that is enough to break the uncanny stillness stretching between them; still, he doesn’t look away, his stare doesn’t waver, and despite the dispassion covering the younger prince’s face, Thor can’t miss the bone-deep chill in his brother’s green eyes. “I hope you enjoy your next irrational, impossible quest: convincing Heimdall of the necessity of this fool’s errand.” Loki looks away at last, calmly and deliberately withdrawing his gaze and turning his attention to gathering up his books, parchment, and pens, sorting them into a tidy stack before him. “The Gatekeeper obeys Father’s will, and Father’s will alone. Heimdall will _never_ allow you passage to Jotunheim.” Those piercingly polar eyes snap up, fastening on Thor’s again, and the elder prince’s breath catches at the sharpness there, the hair on the back of his neck rising even though Loki hasn’t given the faintest indication of launching any sort of attack, and has in fact gone unnaturally still once more but for the movement of his mouth. “And I have not the _slightest_ intention of helping you get around him _this_ time, _Brother.”_

With that, he gathers up his books and moves off down the nearest aisle of bookshelves, turning his back on Thor with a decisive sort of deliberation.

“Loki—” Reacting on impulse alone, Thor takes two long strides after him and stretches out a hand, reaching for his brother’s shoulder—only to find his fingers closing on nothing as the Trickster slides to the side, the movement smooth as a snake’s and twice as fast.

 _“Don’t—touch—me,”_ Loki hisses, coming about just enough to turn a baleful glower on the other prince. Thor pauses mid-stride, his still-outstretched hand dropping to his side--not out of surprise or deference to his brother’s wishes, and especially not out of fear…but instead because Loki’s mask has slipped, his sangfroid faltering long enough for Thor to catch a glimpse of the raw pain, the gut-wrenching anguish and obvious dread concealed beneath it; it’s a sight that shakes Thor to his core. Even so, a fraction of an instant later it’s all gone again, vanished as if buried beneath winter-white banks of snow, and Loki, his eyes huge and hard and his face even paler than usual, has spun away to stalk off down the rows of books once more.

Thor starts to follow again, starts to try to apologise for everything he’s just said as well as what had happened on Svartalfheim, but Loki has already magicked himself away before the elder prince can call after him, and by now Thor knows when Loki’s mood has become intractable and Loki himself too standoffish to get through to.

What’s more, Thor’s not certain he truly deserves to be in his brother’s presence at the moment. What had begun, or at least been intended as an attempt to make some sort of apology had ended almost the same way as their quest to Svartalfheim had started: with Loki resisting and expressing his disinterest, and Thor refusing to listen and forcing the issue anyway, seeking to haul him along despite his younger brother’s well-placed objections.

“Have you learned nothing, you fool?” he growls to himself under his breath, hands clenching in frustration as he turns about, pacing aimlessly back down the rows of bookshelves. “You need to _listen,_ need to— _argh!”_ He raises one mighty fist as if to slam it into the nearest bookcase, but checks himself at the last moment. That kind of display will help no one, and it’s exactly the sort of thing he would have done without thinking a little more than a week before. Instead, he presses the first two knuckles of that fist against his forehead, closing his eyes and outwardly calming himself even as he continues to mentally kick himself for his poor conduct over the last few minutes.

He has to dwell on it for a while, considering what he _should_ have said and done, before he comes to a realisation that makes him blanch. For not only had he failed to apologise and mend his previous behaviour, but in doing so, he had essentially dismissed Loki’s near-brush with death as an event of no import. His brother had deserved far better than that, especially after all he’d done. Thor has little doubt that Loki could have easily fled at nearly any point during the battle with Andvari, leaving his companions to die while emerging from the fight unscathed, then returned home and spun a convincing tale for the All-father as to why he’d been forced to leave them behind. Instead, he’d stayed and risked his life to save them all, and what thanks had they given him for that?

In addition, seeing Loki as he had been a few seconds ago, so emotionally exposed and uncharacteristically distressed and _frightened,_ has left the thunder-god feeling a trifle unbalanced even now. Leaving Loki’s role out of the tale of their quest was wrong, but surely it wasn’t enough to warrant that kind of reaction, or that much hurt. He can’t even begin to fathom why Loki would look at him that way, can’t comprehend what could possibly be causing his brother so much pain.

And so he decides to pay a visit to the wisest person he knows, and seek his guidance in this matter.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

“I assure you, my son, there is nothing amiss in regards to your brother.” The All-father pauses to turn a considering eye on his firstborn before adding, “Save, perhaps, your own continued insensitivity where Loki is concerned.”

“I know I have behaved foolishly, Father, though believe you me, it was not my intention to treat him thus this time. But my own poor conduct is not what is in question here.” He hesitates, uncertain not of what he wants to say, but where to even start. After a while, he gives a breathy laugh, shaking his head in consternation. “How can you say there is nothing amiss when he turned on me so, and for such a small thing as attempting to lay a hand on his shoulder?” The warrior-prince jabs a finger in the general direction of the royal library, a distinct but so far understated growl rising in his voice. “You did not see the look in his eyes, Father. For an instant he was as a wild beast, unable to decide whether to fight, flee, or simply flinch away--in _fear.”_

“Thor—”

Thor ignores the faint warning in his father’s voice, just shaking his head harder in denial and rejection of Odin’s assurances, his befuddlement plain. _“Fear_ —why fear? Since we were grown, never have I raised my hand against him in earnest. And does his anger over my recent mistakes run so deep that he can no longer bear the thought of my touch? But still, that _fear!_ To see such _dread_ on my brother’s face and know that I was the cause…!” Blue eyes narrow in contemplation, then widen with concern. “…Unless…he truly _is_ unwell…”

Odin makes no reply to this, but Thor takes his lack of denial for confirmation. Which in this case, it isn’t. Not really.

“For Loki to be so very unwell… Long have I wondered if this might be the case, and yet I had hoped that I was wrong. Is it in his mind, Father, or his body? Surely it cannot be both—”

“Calm yourself, boy, and mind what you have been told.” There’s a hint of an edge in the All-father’s voice, and it’s mirrored in his stern expression, but Thor pays heed to neither, his temper flaring slightly in response to the reprimand.

“You have told me _nothing!_ I will not have my concerns brushed aside like this—not this time! Not when Loki’s behaviour of late is so _unnatural—”_

 ** _“Thor.”_** Odin’s voice carries such weight that it requires only a single syllable to pin his son in place and stay all his protests. “I do not often repeat myself, but in this case I will, for Loki’s sake.” The King of Asgard looks his eldest son squarely in the face, speaking with deliberate slowness and clarity. “There is _nothing_ wrong with your brother, Thor. _Everything is fine.”_

Thor’s hands open and close at his sides, once, twice, as if longing to curl themselves into fists or else catch hold of Mjölnir’s haft and swing away until even this sort of problem has somehow resolved itself. “…But…”

Suddenly looking profoundly weary, the All-father raises a hand to stay any further questions or objections. “You press me for answers that are not mine to give, my son. But I swear to you by the name of my father, and of his father before him, there is nothing wrong with Loki either mentally or physically. I swear it. And this I ask of you, my firstborn and heir: tax your brother not with these questions you ask of me. He has troubles enough to concern himself with these days without you adding to them. Just trust in him, and enjoy his company as ever you have.”

Thor bows his head in acceptance and Odin starts to turn away, then stops and levels a meaningful stare at the blonde warrior. _“…After_ you apologise to him and clear the air between you, of course.”

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

It takes him the better part of a day, but eventually Thor allows himself to knock on the door to Loki’s chambers. His first thought had been to go directly from his meeting with Odin to straighten things out with his brother then and there. Yet despite that almost overwhelming impulse, he’d paused, deciding to consider what he wanted and needed to say for once rather than simply rushing in and blurting out whatever he thought or felt at the moment. He’d already witnessed firsthand the unfortunate results that kind of lack of forethought would incur, and he had no desire for a repeat of what had happened in the library earlier.

He would find Loki, and he would apologise to him immediately, gracefully, thoroughly. He’d spent some time working out more or less what he wanted to say, only he kept forgetting bits and pieces of it when he tried to practise saying it aloud, and it always sounded too stiff and formal in his ears, not sincere or truly sorry at all. Nonetheless, he thought as he awaited the response to his knocking, it was _necessary—_

But all of that forethought vanishes in an instant as the door swings open to reveal his wide-eyed and careful-cagey brother. “Loki,” he finds himself blurting, “Forgive me, Brother, I beg you, both for our earlier exchange, and the events of these past few days. The quest to Svartalfheim was pure foolishness, an act of thoughtless pride. It was reckless and selfish of me insist on it as I did when there was so little to gain…and so very much to lose.” He swallows hard, his eyes intense on his brother’s face, and presses on. “Forgive me that, Loki. And forgive as well my thoughtless actions in the library--I meant no unkindness, and did not seek to belittle your brave and honourable near-sacrifice. Yet that is what I did, unknowingly.” The blonde warrior shakes his head, a rueful smile coming to his face. “And that sort of ignorance cannot stand: I must be more responsible. It is my duty to _protect_ our people, including you, Brother, not to go looking for situations that will put them in danger. As Father has said, there is danger enough to be found without looking for it.” That smile grows compassionate, warm and full of brotherly affection, and it’s all Thor can do not to grasp at his brother’s shoulder. “You know I love you best of all our companions, Loki, and after that valiant deed of yours, I need not ask if you feel the same. I would that I should not lose that love over my own foolishness, even if I have proven myself unworthy of it.” He spreads his hands beseechingly, bowing his head ever so slightly. “Thus I say again: please, Brother. Forgive me.”

By now Loki’s eyes are hooded, his expression gone still and guarded, and it doesn’t shift even slightly as he stands in the partly-opened door to his chambers and listens to his brother’s surprisingly long-winded confession. Seeing Thor in any sort of submissive pose strikes Loki as _wrong_ somehow, and if he didn’t know exactly how guileless his older brother is, he would suspect it as some sort of mockery; as it is, he can take it for nothing but the truth.

And in light of that, what he feels as he looks up at Thor is…surprise, and a happy sort of relief. It’s too much to expect Thor to experience any sort of significant change to his personality, as this impulsive and babbling profession of guilt and subsequent penitence clearly demonstrate. But the possibility that even one time out of four, Thor will stop to consider his words or deeds is a marked improvement over his previous, entirely thoughtless conduct.

“…Very well,” Loki says after a long moment’s pause, easing back a step away from the door. “Consider your apology accepted, and clemency granted.”

Thor brightens, and it’s as if the sun has broken through a gap in the clouds on a rainy day, though Loki cannot believe that his brother would sincerely think his regrets might fall on deaf ears or a heart of stone. Thor cannot have had any doubt that he would be forgiven, eventually if not now, though again, it is against Thor’s nature to leave anything unsettled, especially where it concerns his brother. Loki is far too dear to him for there to be any sort of bad blood between them for long: it had always been that way, ever since they were small boys.

Loki finds one side of his mouth curling ever so slightly as he takes another step back to open the door farther. “Though if you have further business here, or any words left, do come in. And in the future you might think to save your speeches for walls with fewer ears.”

Thor nods amiably as he moves into the room, unbothered by the prospect of anyone having overheard what he’d said. Loki gives an inward sigh and thinks that it’s this artlessness sort of innocence, not ignorance, that must truthfully be the closest thing to bliss.

_Although ignorance is still close, and Thor possesses a fair measure of both._

Closing the door, he returns to his study-table. This receiving room, the outer chamber of his quarters, resembles nothing so much as a miniature library, full of charts and book-crammed shelves. Bits and pieces and various components of magical spells take up a large table in one corner, tucked away out of the light that, were it day, would pour in honeyed streams from the room’s floor-length windows. Rolls of parchment, pens and inkwells, and further stacks of all sorts of texts cover another collection of smaller tables, though there’s still a concession to sociability, if not congeniality, in the cluster of couches and comfortable chairs surrounding the fire-pit on the far side of the room. Of course, Thor being Thor, he ignores all that inviting furniture in favour of half-leaning against, half-sitting on the edge of the table nearest the one where Loki is seated, crossing his arms over his chest and surveying the room in general and his brother in particular with a benevolent, thoroughly kingly sort of air.

Watching Thor from beneath his eyelashes as he mechanically straightens his workspace, once again Loki considers telling him The Truth. They’re alone, in private, and while there’s undeniably still an element of strain in their current relationship, it’s been years since Loki felt this closely connected to his elder brother. The pure, easy intimacy of childhood was lost to them with the onset of adolescence and the full realisation of their physical and psychological differences, and the growing pains that tugged and pulled and bent everything out of shape still plague them, figuratively if not literally. Thinking of those bygone days always leaves Loki feeling somber, lonely, and more than just a little empty, as if he’d been left behind and no one had bothered to notice as much.

And now? He dares not speak of it now, for fear of breaking the tenuous peace or the timorous return of these long-lost feelings of equality and simplicity, a waning of sibling rivalry and a waxing of brotherly regard, the solid sense of being co-conspirators rather than competitors once again. With that feeling of acceptance taken into consideration, Loki can’t quite bring himself to divulge the truth, even if it means that this acceptance is, as before, built on a foundation not wholly secure. Better a false comfort than a true hatred.

“What else brings you here,” Loki says instead, a safe and simple question, seeking information rather than providing it.

Thor, who is the straightforward plain-faced type that can have no secrets for long, nods and moves on to the next matter at hand. “In all honesty, Brother, I would speak to you about your isolation. Your friends have felt your absence of late, I most of all. And it was largely due to my desire to remedy that absence that caused me to propose the quest to Svartalfheim.” Loki slowly leans back in his chair as Thor continues, “They are your friends, Loki, and I am your brother. If ever we have done aught to offend you, you need only tell us.”

Loki wavers, unable to put aside the memory of what he’d done to Sif when last he’d seen her--unintentionally, yes, but it was still his fault that she’d come to harm, minor a hurt as it had been. “Your words are appreciated, Thor, but forgive me if I cannot help but doubt their veracity.” The younger prince knows that the Warriors are devoted enough to Thor that they would be inclined to tell their leader whatever he wanted to hear; if Thor wanted Loki back, they would likely agree with him regardless of their true feelings. Sif, on the other hand, has never been afraid to speak her mind directly, and therein Loki can discern the truth of the matter. “The Lady Sif, at least, must not object to my continued absence.”

Thor regards Loki with a surprising level of seriousness, a brief handful of heartbeats passing by before he speaks, slowly and solemnly. “As of late yestermorn, Sif has fought and defeated Fandral seven times since our return from Svartalfheim, twice sending him to the Healing Room with considerable injuries.” He can’t prevent a smile from coming to his face as he continues, “And the day before last, she very nearly sent me there as well. In your absence due to injury, she has all but declared herself your champion, and has sworn to face no others on the training grounds until she deems adequate compensation has been made for our inaccurate tellings of Andvari’s defeat.”

Loki’s response is an unmistakably dubious eyebrow-quirk--he can’t imagine Sif taking his part so strongly over _any_ thing, much less something like this, but he hasn’t the chance to say so since Thor is still talking.

“We’ve told the tale as it should have been told ever since her first round with Fandral, but it has done little to appease her anger. I believe she holds herself somewhat responsible for the spread of that false retelling…but even more, I think that she is vexed at the thought of finding herself beholden to you. She did not expect that you would save our lives at the risk of your own, and she is not the sort to leave a debt unpaid, whether she likes it or no.”

“I see,” Loki murmurs, staring down at his folded hands. Of course it’s all due to her warrior’s pride, he thinks, brushing aside the faintest twinge of something very much like disappointment. Still, at the same time it satisfies his logical side, which in itself is something of a relief. Repayment for a life saved--that, at least, makes sense enough that he can accept it.

“In any case…Sif has been in this foul temper for nearly a seven-day now, with no sign of easing up. In fact, I think she only grows more fierce. And so your friends and I would ask, admittedly for our own sakes, that you visit the training grounds soon, and regularly afterwards, to prove that you no longer have need of such a champion.”

In that moment there are few things that Loki wants more than to refuse that request. His magic is more wildly out of control than ever, he’s nearly always tired, and he has yet to fully heal from his injuries; his arm still bothers him when he tries to carry too many books, and any sort of _twisting_ would likely prove to be something of a bad idea for at least another day or two. And he certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over it even if Fandral received a daily thrashing from Sif for the rest of his life--in fact, he rather thinks the ‘dashing’ warrior has something of the sort coming. They all do, and that they might receive it without he himself ever having to lift a hand...

But he can see that Thor is in earnest. His older brother is concerned about both Sif and Fandral, but what’s more, he’s also looking for some sort of excuse to spend additional time with Loki, and (unsurprisingly) sparring is the only thing he can think of. Artless as the offer is considering his still-slightly-weakened physical state, the Trickster can’t find it in himself to reject it outright…and indeed, some small part of him actually _does_ want to go, if only to follow Sif’s example and settle their accounts with him by trading (or more aptly, _dealing)_ some blows.

“I will consider the idea,” Loki says carefully, making no promises…but this time Thor is listening. This time Thor sees through him, correctly reading the slight smile about his mouth and the relaxation of the muscles around his eyes as his subtle acceptance of the offer.

“Excellent,” Thor says, rewarding him with a broad grin. “We shall look forward to your return to us, Brother.”

“Indeed, will you?” Loki says half-distractedly as Thor, still beaming, turns to go. “Though where I am concerned, it may do you more credit to look behind rather than forward,” the younger prince adds far more quietly, a mere musing to himself. “And Thor?” he calls as his brother reaches the door, causing the blonde warrior to turn back to meet his gaze. “Perhaps…in return, you could consider my chambers here, if ever you require a place of quiet and peace, to think in silent company.”

A brief expression of surprise, followed by a lengthier one of affection and gratitude, crosses Thor’s face, and his smile holds warmth enough that Loki feels as if simply basking in it for a few moments might loosen the clutches of even the worst of his magical cold-flashes.

“Aye, Brother,” the Thunder-god rumbles, plainly well-pleased by how things stand between them at the moment. “Thank you. Perhaps I could.”

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	10. { .X. } {In Which Loki Is Shown To Be A Momma’s Boy & Thor Insists On Being His Brother’s Keeper, With Predictable Results}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Since that late-night discussion with Thor a fortnight gone, that settling of accounts, as it were, things had improved between the brothers somewhat. Two days after that conversation, Loki had made his return to the practise hall, and had proceeded to calmly and systematically demolish anyone who sought to take arms against him. Fandral and Volstagg hadn’t stood a chance, and Hogan had been taken down with a similar sort of ease, but all things considered, they couldn’t find it in them to begrudge him the victories. Interestingly enough, instead of practically humming with a perceptible sort of rage on being forced to accept any sort of defeat, this time Sif had grinned a fierce, wolfish grin on finding herself bested by the younger prince (though there was yet a steely look in her eyes that warned him that this didn’t change anything, that next time she would come at him just as ferociously as she had this time and all the times before). Even Thor had taken a decent beating, though he’d still won out in the end, and he’d practically glowed with delight during the entire match.

In addition, Loki had attended the feasts more regularly, and stayed at them much longer than was his wont. He didn’t join in the dancing or the more raucous celebrations, but he made an obvious sort of effort to regularly put in an appearance, to at least be present for if not partake in the merriment.

He’d hidden himself away less. He’d walked about with Thor more, so much so that they were nearly as inseparable as they’d been as boys. And yet, Asgard’s younger prince had still seemed oddly reserved or restrained, not at all his usual sharp-tongued, mischief-loving self…

…Because the truth of the matter was, as well as things seemed to be going superficially, inwardly things hadn’t changed for Loki at all.

He still couldn’t sleep through the night so he was still always tired, and he was nearly always uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. Exhaustion and the distress caused by the continuous see-sawing between extremes where his internal temperature was concerned was taxing his body nearly to the breaking point, and the psychological effect was little better. Every time that all-consuming heat swallowed him, every time that bone-numbing and blood-freezing chill encased him, every time he warily removed himself from an Asgardian’s easy reach, all he could think about was his biggest secret. How his whole life, all of it, every single thing, was nothing more than an elaborate lie. How he wasn’t really and truly accepted by Thor or any of the people around him save his foster parents.

And _that_ more than anything else ate away at him, until at long last he finds that he simply cannot bear it any longer.

He will change himself, Loki decides late one night as he leaves the most recent banquet, stumbling a bit from the regrettable combination of fatigue and one (or three) too many cups of mead. He’s so worn down from his constant hyper-vigilance, from trying to hold himself back and yet throw himself forward at the same time that at this moment, he is willing to attempt nearly anything, so long as there is the slightest chance of some sort of reprieve.

On reaching his rooms, he moves to a small stack of books he’d tucked away beneath one of his work-tables, spreading them out before paging through them with an intense sort of focus. He’d looked through them all before, of course, but he’d previously considered most of the spells they contained too old, too unpredictable, or too strange to be worthwhile. But now, now he’s desperate, and even if he doesn’t understand everything in those books, their power is undeniable. In any case, nothing else has worked, so perhaps it’s time to try something drastic, to take a chance and embrace the unknown.

At that very moment, one of those horrible hot-flashes engulfs him, and he only just manages to jerk his hands away from the dusty old tome he’s flipping through in time to keep from freezing the book’s pages together into one solid block; and just like that, he has his answer. _If only I could put a stop to these accursed temperature changes,_ he thinks as he doffs his heavy leather outer-tunic and stretches himself out on his back on the cool stone floor. The sweat beading on his brow and staining his under-tunic is proof of how ineffective both actions are, and yet it’s better than doing nothing. If only he didn’t have these constant, painful reminders of what he really is, how different he is, who his blood-father is, then perhaps he could simply allow himself to forget the Truth. He’d nearly done so when he was younger, and really, what was there to be gained by revealing the past? If he could mostly-forget again, he could throw himself more wholeheartedly into being more like Thor (which had never worked at all well when he was a child, so there was little enough hope of it succeeding now, but for the moment those memories were far from Loki’s mind).

Still, partly-muddled as his thoughts are, Loki remains self-possessed enough to take proper care in handling his magicks. Some other time he might enjoy finding himself in the shape of a horse or a gadfly or a salmon, but at the moment such a change would be less than amusing and far from helpful. Settling on the spell that sounds the most appropriate given the present circumstances, Loki gathers the necessary material components, reads the spell over once again to be certain he understands it (he does--it’s just a precaution, since he is on just the wrong side of tipsy and is well aware of that fact), and falls to casting.

It proves to be more complex a working than he’d quite expected, but he manages. Now that there’s no danger of his magic suddenly sputtering out or slipping away and sending everything swiftly sideways, Loki tends to feel that there’s little he can’t do (magically speaking) if he puts his mind to it. Still, his control isn’t perfect, and he expends far more energy than he really should have had to for something like this, complicated as it is and weary as he already feels. After half an hour, he’s begun straining over working with such constantly-high levels of power; a quarter of an hour later, there’s a fuzzy sort of blackness edging his vision, and he has to struggle to keep his eyes open and maintain his focus, his grasp on the spell he’s working. As the minutes inch on towards a full hour, Loki grits his teeth and forces himself to finish what he’d started...and the moment, the very second the hour strikes and the spell is complete, he finds himself lying face-down on the floor, unable to so much as twitch a finger, much less push himself upright once more.

He doesn’t _feel_ any different, is the younger prince’s last hazy thought before all the many strains he’s been under take their toll by force, and he loses his grip on consciousness.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

He discovers the next day that, in a way, it _had_ worked.

He is finally free of those constant hot-flashes…but as with all magic, there is a cost. The cold-flashes have grown more regular and more intense than ever, and now just about everything Loki touches freezes, oftentimes even if he’s wearing gloves or his skin is covered. His first thought is to undo the spell, but that proves impossible: the threads of magic surrounding himself are too tangled to allow much room for maneuvering. Additionally, the spell he’d cast the night before must have tapped into his Frost Giant nature somehow; already it’s solid, smooth, and inexorable as a glacier, a huge unmovable weight frozen in place.

As before, Loki’s only real choice is to do his best to live with it.

That proves a great deal more difficult than he’d first thought, however. It’s almost a toss-up as to whether or not something will freeze solid the instant he touches it, which makes getting dressed hard, eating difficult, and bathing nigh-on impossible—every time he tries to dip his toes in the bath, the water freezes beneath him. His only remaining options when it comes to keeping himself clean are the sauna (which he exits in well under a minute, coated in ice and only slightly cleaner) and the use of spices and sweet oils to mask the scent of his unwashed body.

Loki knows with a sinking sort of trepidation that if he looks at things from Thor’s (admittedly rather limited) point of view, their situation is worse now than ever before.

Sparring is, of course, out of the question, and not only because it makes him perspire freely; Loki can’t risk what an accidental touch would mean for his friends, or even worse what it would mean for himself. Additionally, he knows that Thor would be on him in an instant about those missed sparring sessions the second they made eye contact, so Loki has no choice but to avoid both his brother and their friends entirely…and his powers being what they are, Loki is more than up to that task.

Now his brother and his friends can go for days and weeks at a time without catching more than a brief glimpse of Asgard’s second prince, even at meals. He doesn’t respond to their summons or to any written messages, and never answers when they knock on the doors to his chambers; forcing those doors open (as Thor had done on one occasion) revealed nothing but an empty, atypically messy-looking room. Heimdall’s lips thin when asked for the status and whereabouts of the younger prince, and he refuses to say much of anything save a gruff, “Loki is Loki. And Loki is wherever he wants to be--which for the moment is wherever you are not.” Thor doesn’t pay it any heed, but Fandral wonders if perhaps for once there’s the faintest hint of approval in the Guardian’s tone as he speaks the latter half of that second sentence.

Those fleeting glimpses they do manage to get of him offer little relief. Loki looks nothing short of terrible: his hair and skin are greasy, his hands are stained with ink, and the hollows under his eyes and beneath his cheekbones make him look almost skeletal. He won’t meet their eyes, won’t acknowledge them in the least, disappearing in a puff of smoke the instant they call his name.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Thor is brooding.

As the second month of Loki’s strange behaviour passes, the Warriors and Sif grow more and more concerned, about Thor as much as Loki, for the elder prince is clearly taking this turn of events hard. In his own way, Thor is trying to understand, trying to respect his brother’s obvious desire for solitude, and yet…it simply feels wrong to leave him alone like this, to not have Loki at his shoulder whenever he turns around, present and perpetually prepared to offer counsel and criticism in equal measure. Still, Thor is determined to defer to Loki’s wishes as much as possible, though it goes against his very nature to do so.

Thus, the brooding.

Which of course, eventually leads him to yet another consultation--and confrontation--with Odin.

“He is acting NOTHING like himself, Father! In times past, Loki could spend _hours_ in the bath, and he has always been beyond meticulous when it comes to his appearance, and now…!” Thor shakes his head, blonde hair flying as words, never his strong point, temporarily fail him. “Surely you’ve seen him, Father! To show such a change in his aspect, surely there must be something terribly _wrong—”_

 _“Thor,”_ Odin breaks in with a snap, his single grey eye blazing. “A hundred times already we have had this very conversation, and a hundred times I gave you the same advice. _There will be no one hundred and first time.”_

Thor’s jaw squares at the underlying threat in that tone, and an almost visible crackle of energy flickers around him as he bares his teeth at the All-father. _“Do you not care for him at all?”_ he snarls, already well on his way to shouting. “Loki is your son, just as I am, and yet you turn your gaze from him! What secret, unforgiveable act is he guilty of that gives you just cause stand by and refuse to offer him any aid whatsoever? _You,_ who are the only being in all of Asgard who might have the _slightest_ chance of being able to _help him—”_

“Thor.” Frigga’s voice, gentle and yet utterly unyielding for all that softness, breaks in on the elder prince’s tirade, and Thor’s rising wrath is dispelled in an instant. “Your brother is just a late bloomer. All that you can give him,” she says, with perhaps the slightest stress on that _you,_ and a split-second’s plainly disapproving glance toward Odin, “is time, patience, and your continued love and acceptance.”

“Mother…” A stream of conflicting emotions flows across the elder prince’s face, worry, uncertainty, and frustration chief among them, but eventually he bows his head in acceptance, though the dejection in his bearing is far from subtle. He knows that Frigga does not involve herself in things needlessly, and when it comes to sensitive matters such as these, Thor trusts her judgment above all others; many a time her advice had staved off childhood conflicts and mended youthful fallings-out. “…I understand.”

Looking decidedly diminished, he bows and leaves, even his brightly-coloured cloak’s swirling around him somehow subdued. Frigga watches him go with a sad sort of smile, though as the door shuts, that smile fades completely. Rising from her seat beside her lord husband, she gives Odin a Look before sweeping across the room and out the door herself, with no less speed than the elder of her two adopted sons.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Paying a visit to her younger son in his chambers isn’t unheard of, but Frigga’s unannounced arrival is still out-of-the-ordinary enough that it puts Loki even further on edge. He eyes her warily as she sweeps into his rooms, as if expecting (and perhaps almost half-wanting) some sort of embrace, but she’s careful not to come too near, and makes no move to touch him as of yet. “Mother,” he says, slowly and with equal caution, mostly-polite but still-pointed questions deftly woven into that single word. _Why have you made such a point of coming here? And why now? Do you not fear the danger my very presence might well signify for you? Knowing how I would feel if I were to harm you, how I would blame myself, what would bring you to place yourself within harm’s reach?_

Unspoken though those questions are, Frigga seems to catch and understand them nonetheless; in many ways Loki’s mind works more like hers than Odin’s or Thor’s, particularly when it comes to reading people, to sensing what they’re thinking. They are both more delicate, more finely-tuned and sensitive to subtle shifts in atmosphere and ambiance, though Loki is more focused on logic, probabilities, and the push-and-pull of cause and effect, while Frigga’s intuition hinges on sheer emotions.

Which is why the Queen of the Aesir simply smiles as she meets her younger son’s haunted, sunken-eyed gaze, her voice and expression warm and soothing. “Be at peace, Loki. I shall not stay overlong.”

Loki watches her a lengthy moment more, then nods slightly, easing back down into his chair as she settles herself on one of the couches halfway across the room.

“Your father and I agree on most things,” she says without preamble, “but there is one thing, at least, that we have always disagreed on.” Her gaze is tender, and it is empathy, not pity, that she turns on him alongside that all-consuming, all-comforting mother’s love. “I have always thought that your lord father was wrong to hide the truth of your birth from the rest of Asgard, particularly for as long as he has. And while I know there is a purpose to everything your father does, I do not believe that the ends always justify the means; I cannot accept what he has knowingly put you through. He had to have known that as a young boy, you would be too frightened to tell anyone, and now…rather than ease or erase the memories of past misdeeds, time has only deepened the bitterness between Asgard and Jotunheim, though even so, he still holds the power and authority to—” Frigga stops herself, concern and passion and even a hint of frustration subsiding once more beneath her calm, even-keeled personality. “But he cannot. Not now. For the All-father is already thrice-sworn to leave this decision up to you, and nothing can be done about that.” She hesitates, then continues on, speaking even more gently now. “Know that I seek only to counsel, not to command you in this. I know it will be a difficult matter, however and whenever you choose to reveal the truth…but perhaps now that all of Asgard has heard of your grand adventure on Svartalfheim, how you saved your brother and your friends time and again with no thought for yourself…perhaps now that all know that you are every bit the hero that Thor is—”

 _ **“No.”**_ Loki winces at the sharpness in his tone, his gaze falling away from his adoptive mother, but he can’t find it in himself to explain or expand upon that too-adamant rejection.

There is a space of protracted silence during which neither moves nor speaks. Frigga doesn’t react at first, though she doesn’t look away from her second son either, but then she nods her acceptance.

“I will stand with you and behind you whatever you decide, Loki,” she says, coming up off the couch with a smooth grace that hints at her past as a shield-maiden of the All-father. “But I do believe that this will go easier for you if you can find it within yourself to acknowledge and accept yourself, and if you truly learn who you are.”

“I have,” he says, and though he tries to bite it back, he can’t keep the snappishly irritable tone from his voice. “I learned that when I was but a child, Mother—you know that.”

“No,” Frigga says, the word soft but incontestable just the same. “You know _what_ you are. It is not so easy to understand or accept _who_ you are. Never make the mistake of believing that they are one and the same.”

Loki stares at her a moment, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line; then he shakes his head, turning his gaze aside. “I am not in the mood for these meaningless word-games.”

Frigga can’t help but smile in response. “Skilled as you are with words, I had thought you would better understand what I was saying.” He turns his face towards her ever so slightly, a subtle motion but an obvious indicator of his interest nonetheless, and she explains. _“What_ you are is how you are born, something you have no control over. _What_ you are is a Jotun, a frost-giant. But _who_ you are is something you become, something you find for yourself, and something that only you can decide. _Who_ you are is Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard, and my cherished, dearly beloved second child.”

She’s drifted closer over the course of their conversation, and at that last, she carefully reaches out to pat his shoulder with one gloved hand. The endlessly steady love and affection in her smile temporarily melt all his icy defences, and Loki looks up at the only mother he’s ever known with the wide eyes of a frightened boy. And though in that instant he wants nothing more than to throw his arms around her waist and bury his face against her middle like a small child, breathing in the well-remembered scent of her perfume, he doesn’t dare touch her; of all the many people in his life, she is the one that he truly could not stand to cause any sort of physical harm, accidental or not.

So instead he breathes out a long, slow sigh, letting his eyes fall closed (one of the ultimate expressions of trust), and leans ever so slightly into her touch.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Thor is still brooding. The only difference is, now he’s attempting in turns to either hide it or to _not_ brood, which really only makes it all the more obvious.

He has been struggling to accept what both of his parents have told him (and in his father’s case, have told him time and again), but the stubbornness of Asgard’s first prince is legendary, a foe that even he himself is hard put to contain. Much as he wants to believe that Loki is fine, that _everything_ is fine, that everything will _continue_ to be fine, every time he catches a glimpse of his brother’s pale face and too-thin figure, all his misgivings return in force and his worries descend on him again with the furor of starving wolves presented with fresh meat.

This is, in part, due to his nature, which is one of action and not words. Thor can be told something is a mistake a hundred times, but until he has actually _made_ the mistake and learned for himself firsthand _why_ it is a mistake, the lesson only rarely comes home to roost. His parents have told him that there is nothing wrong with Loki, but even though he only catches sight of him for a few brief seconds every few days, Thor can still see his brother’s suffering quite plainly. And in the face of that obvious misery and distress, such words of attempted comfort hold little to no meaning for Thor, regardless of who had spoken them.

Thor reaches his breaking point at a time and in a way that is wholly unexpected to anyone. He and the Warriors Three are intent on relaxing in the baths after a particularly grueling morning in the practise hall, and all of them are unusually quiet as they step into the caldarium (Thor because he’s focusing so intently on his not-brooding; Volstagg because he has a mouthful of grapes; Fandral because Sif had managed to catch him in the jaw with the hilt of her sword not once but _twice,_ and he’s still cautiously probing the resulting bruises since he’s not entirely certain she didn’t break it both times; and Hogun because that’s simply how he always is). All four come to a startled stop on finding Loki, still fully-dressed and heavy swathed in towels, sitting close beside the steaming water, his eyes glazed and unfocused; he evidently hadn’t heard them come in, and was still as of yet unaware of their presence.

Even wrapped in towels, Loki looks small and sickly, and though he’s right next to the water, his skin is still deathly pale; Thor feels his heart wrench and his stomach drop as he looks at him. “How poorly he looks,” the blonde warrior murmurs softly, almost to himself.

“Well then,” Volstagg manages to say around his latest mouthful of fruit, “ask him to join us. A soak would likely do him good.”

“No no, that _clearly_ won’t work. The instant he saw us coming toward him, he’d simply vanish into thin air again, like usual.” Fandral starts to grin, winces as it sends a sharp pang through his jaw, and settles for a lopsided smile instead. “Reticent as Loki has been of late, you’d be likely to have better luck surprising him and simply tossing him into the—Thor?”

Loki sits as if in a daze, thinking of nothing and everything and letting the steam and the soothing sound of the water wash over him, lingering close by but never touching it, a largely vain attempt to soak up some small fraction of its warmth. He is so absolutely and entirely withdrawn into himself and the labyrinthine corridors of his own mind that he doesn’t notice Thor’s swift approach at all; only as his older brother’s arms clamp around him tightly, scooping him up like a child, does he come out of his reverie with a violent start.

 _“Thor!”_ he snarls shrilly, his voice cracking and sounding far weaker than either of them remembers it being. _“Unhand me at once—!”_

“Brother! Enough of this skulking about in dark corners! Join us for a bath!” Thor’s voice booms out over the water, far louder than necessary, a transparent attempt to use volume to conceal the falseness of his forced cheer. And with a rough bark of laughter, Asgard’s first prince gives a mighty heave, and does just as Fandral had (jokingly) suggested: he tosses his still-fully-clothed brother out into the bathwater.

The very second Loki’s far-too-light body leaves his arms, Thor regrets it, but by then it’s already too late. The deed is done, and there’s nothing he can do to take it back or alter his impulsive action, though that certainly doesn’t keep him from trying. Thor takes two lunging steps after Loki before he realises the utter uselessness of his actions, and the waist-deep water of the hot springs drags him to a stop.

Which is just as well, because Loki never hits the water. Thor had surprised him, to be sure, but the younger prince had recovered his wits near-instantly; as often as he’d used that spell now, it is second nature to simply magick himself away before he hits the water and subsequently turns the whole caldarium into a single block of ice.

…But even so, the spot where Loki had _almost_ hit is frozen solid, though none of the warriors notice that sizeable chunk of ice before it melts back into the surrounding hot water.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	11. { .XI. } {In Which The Truth Finally Comes Out}

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

It’s the better part of three days before Thor manages to find Loki again.

(“Fancy hiding in one’s own bedchambers! A trick worth remembering, that,” the elder prince had chortled over drinks much later on.

“Oh indeed,” Fandral had quipped with just the barest trace of almost-sarcasm--only _almost_ because though they might disagree with him or despair of certain aspects of his plans, none of the Warriors ever really mock Thor. “Hiding in the first place someone would think to look because it _is_ the first place, and as such is obviously too obvious to even bother looking in at all. Damned clever, that.”)

Thor knows his younger brother well enough to know that talking his way in is hopeless at this point; so he lets his muscles do the talking instead and forces the door, metal and wood both giving way before him.

And this time, Loki is actually still in his chambers.

He’s tired of running--he’s tired of most everything, just about--and he’ll be damned if _anyone_ sends him scurrying from his own rooms _ever_ again. So he doesn’t rise from his seat behind his book-covered desk when Thor comes barging in with all the grace of a hippo in high heels, doesn’t even raise his head, merely flicking a brief glance up at his foster brother before returning his attention to the tiny print of the volume in front of him.

But Thor won’t have that. The guilt he feels over their last encounter mingles with his frustration at not being able to work _whatever-this-is_ out, his dissatisfaction with how little he’s seen Loki of late, and his concern over his brother’s welfare (which is rapidly devolving into true anxiety, nearly approaching distress) as well. Unfortunately, in Thor’s case this amalgamation of emotions produces something that most closely resembles anger; with heavy strides he crosses the room, coming to a stop directly in front of Loki’s desk.

“What,” the blonde warrior says with a forced sort of calm, the words coming low and slow as he pushes aside two stacks of books, both to rest his hands on the desk and give himself a clear view of his brother, “in the Nine Realms is _going on_ here? What is _wrong,_ Loki?”

Loki keeps his head down, keeps reading. “There are a great many things that are ‘wrong’ in this world of ours. Aren’t there, Thor.” His eyes flick up again, lingering for a brief second before dropping once more. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

 _“You_ are _avoiding_ us,” Thor says domineeringly, abruptly leaning back and away, crossing his brawny arms over his chest. “Is that specific enough for you, Brother?”

This time Loki doesn’t even look up. “Am I?” He turns a page, still reading, or at least pretending to. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about—“

_“—DAMMIT, LOKI—!”_

Already on edge as he is, Thor’s temper goes, and in a motion almost too quick for the (mortal) eye to follow, Thor’s foot lashes out, sending Loki’s heavy wooden desk skidding sideways to smash into the nearest wall…ten feet away. Books scatter everywhere, there’s a veritable explosion of parchment, and Loki’s inkwell capsizes, baptising the surface of his desk and the few remaining texts and papers still on it with ink. Loki looks on as the streams of syrupy black liquid fall in runnels to pool on the floor, his gaze dispassionate, disconnected; normally he would have lunged after them, intent on saving both tomes and transcriptions alike, but right now it is just so very hard to care. There is certainly little enough reason to.

Without the desk between them, Thor seems to loom larger than ever, his obvious agitation making his movements notably more expansive and aggressive. “I seek you out to speak of my sincere desire to mend whatever ills have caused this newly-formed rift between us, and you merely sit there, as if none of this matters to you in the least!” The heat fades from his voice, the thunder going out of him slightly as he seems to remember himself, what he’s really here for, and the fact that intimidation isn’t likely to be beneficial at this moment. “Tell me,” he says, his voice wavering with emotion as he spreads his hands in a helpless, beseeching gesture. “Please…tell me _why,_ Loki. _Why_ are you avoiding us?”

Loki sits silently for a long moment, staring down at his own hands, resting palms-downward atop of his thighs, seemingly deciding what to say. He’s so tired now, he almost doesn’t care any more--not just about literal physical _things_ like the books and all those pages and pages of painstakingly-written notes, but about _any_ thing, _every_ thing, even hiding The Truth.

“You’re right,” he says at long last, his voice quiet, calm, and utterly rational. “I _have_ been avoiding you.” Almost absently he turns one of his hands over, studying his own empty palm with visible detachment. “Ever since our quest to Svartalfheim, I haven’t been fully in control of my magic. Recently, that control has grown even more tenuous. And if I should happen to be around other people when that control slips, someone could be hurt quite seriously.”

Thor’s laugh is strained, his smile equally so as he attempts to wave away Loki’s words. “We are your _friends,_ Loki! Your boon companions, to be trusted through thick and thin, life and death. Together we have faced down innumerable foes—Demons, Dark Elves, Frost Giants, and countless other monsters, even a Dragon. We are _warriors,_ brave and blooded all, and we will not blanch in the face of a danger presented by one of our own. We wish only to help you, never mind the risk.”

Something about the not-quite-smug but supremely self-assured note in Thor’s tone rankles Loki; he sounds like what he’s saying is simple common sense, like it’s completely obvious and wholly certain that their friends will always be loyal to them. It’s true, Loki knows, and that is why it rubs him the wrong way, because it _is_ true…for Thor, anyway. They love him, they trust him unconditionally, and they would follow him to the ends of all Nine Realms and beyond without question…but for Loki there is nothing so certain, save mistrust and a constant wariness, no matter how many times he supports or saves them.

“No, Thor, I believe the others would mind quite a lot.” Loki can’t bring himself to say all of _why,_ but that knowledge taints what he does say, and for some reason he can’t stop himself from adding, “And they would mind even more if they knew The Truth—”

Loki’s eyes go wide, his mouth closing with a clearly audible _clack_ as he realises what he’s just said, how heavily he’s hinted about his deepest, darkest secret. Thor might not be among the brightest beings in Asgard, but even he isn’t so dense as to miss something as obvious as that, especially when he’s not only listening, but paying almost painfully close attention.

Sure enough, the thunder-god’s head comes up at that. “What? What truth?”

Loki knows he’s said too much, that Thor will never let this go now that he has a hold of it, but that doesn’t stop him from verbally scrambling to backpedal. “No, nothing, I simply meant—”

 _“What truth,_ Loki?!”

“Thor, there isn’t—”

_**“WHAT. TRUTH.”** _

“THERE _ISN’T_ ANY TRUTH!” He hadn’t meant to shout, hadn’t meant to raise his voice at all, but he can’t ever seem to back down from a challenge where Thor is concerned, and Loki finds himself losing control yet again, albeit this time on a decidedly different front, one that is physical and emotional rather than magical and physiological. In an effort to regain some of that control, he pushes to his feet and whirls away, crossing the room, seeking to put some distance and perhaps a few more pieces of furniture between Thor and himself (since that had worked so _well_ the previous time, as evidenced by the cracks in the wall and the ink-spattered books scattered about chaotically). “It was merely a slip of the tongue, I assure you, I don’t know—”

_**“LIAR.”** _

That single word is all that it takes to rock the younger prince back on his heels, his eyes going wide as something in his chest gives a painful, wrenching _twist;_ for, as much trouble and mischief as Loki has caused over the years, _never_ before has Thor thrown that word in his face like this, a blatant accusation. Loki’s latest denial lodges in his throat unpleasantly, and that sticking sort of feeling is enough to make his shoulders hunch, his eyes narrow, and his fists clench belligerently as he slowly turns back to face his ‘brother.’

Thor’s stance is equally aggressive, and for a moment it looks as if they might very well end up brawling it out right there, as they had many a time during their younger years.

**_“TELL ME! OR ALL-FATHER HELP ME, I’LL—”_ **

“FINE!” Loki all but bellows, though his voice still isn’t nearly as loud and full and roaring as Thor’s, _“FINE!_ IF YOU _REALLY_ WANT TO KNOW, I’LL _TELL_ YOU—BUT _OH,_ WHAT SHOULD I TELL YOU OF FIRST? OF HOW _NONE_ OF YOU, MY SO-CALLED _FRIENDS,_ TRULY KNOWS WHAT I AM? OF HOW I’VE HAD TO KEEP THAT SECRET HIDDEN FOR _YEARS,_ PRETENDING EVERYTHING WAS NORMAL, NEVER KNOWING IF I’D LOSE IT ALL, OR IF MY OWN _BROTHER_ WOULD HATE AND DESPISE ME WHEN HE LEARNED THE _**TRUTH?**_ And yet—” Loki’s voice falters, fails, falls in volume as a sudden flood of raw emotion drowns it. “And yet…spending every minute of every one of those days for all those years wanting nothing more than to tell you that Truth. Because _this_ lie wasn’t at all enjoyable, and part of me…part of me wanted to _know,_ wanted to see what would happen when you learned that I…that I am n-nothing more than one of those—those hideous monsters you so wished to destroy when we were younger. That truly, you and I share no blood, though I _am_ the son of a king, and thus still a prince…but a prince of Jotunheim, not Asgard.” Those final few words come out dull and dampened, little more than a choked admission. By the end of it, there are tears in Loki’s eyes, and though he tries to blink them back, one still escapes to trace its way down one high cheekbone. “The Truth is,” he says, soft and slow but sounding just slightly steadier now, “I should not be named Loki Odinson…but instead Loki _Laufeyson.”_

Through it all Thor stands and stares and listens in sheer, utter silence, looking both startled and skeptical, but remaining quiet through it all nonetheless. But even as those last few words leave Loki’s mouth, Thor surges forward, engulfing him in a massive hug. Loki goes stiff with surprise, temporarily too taken aback to manage any sort of response, much less resistance; a second later finds him twisting in Thor’s grasp, trying to pull away, to _escape,_ because it isn’t safe, _it isn’t safe_ for Thor to touch him like this or _at all_ really and even though Thor has been told The Truth and didn’t simply leave outright, that doesn’t mean he’s entirely okay with things either. For all Loki knows, Asgard’s first prince might not really understand what he’d just been told and _he still won’t let go—_

“…Oh, my brother…”

Loki goes still as Thor speaks, his struggles ceasing instantly at the warmth, the happiness, the relief in those words.

“Father would tell me nothing! I feared you had been mortally injured in some way, by the dragon perhaps, and that you were dying. I feared…I feared that someday I would look back on this and find that I had simply stood by and done nothing as I lost my only brother.”

 _We’re not brothers._ The words that instantly come to Loki’s mind don’t make it past his lips, because while it _is_ true, after all these years of growing up together it somehow _isn’t_ as well. Lying doesn’t bother Loki in the least—he’s already long past having something so bothersome and amusing as a conscience—but even he doesn’t know if the words would be more lie or truth, so he can’t bring himself to speak them.

“It’s a secret,” he says instead, his words half-muffled by the way his face is still pressed hard against Thor’s shoulder. “You mustn’t tell anyone, only Father, Mother, and Heimdall know—”

Thor does pull back at that, looking unquestionably cross--for not being told, but even more so because—

“…So _that_ is why Heimdall has always mistrusted you so?”

It’s almost more of a statement than a question, though either way Thor’s displeasure is readily apparent. He sounds--and looks--very much like he’s considering taking a swing at the Gate Keeper when next he ventures out that way.

A smile plays along Loki’s mouth at the idea, because it truly is a _lovely_ mental picture, but now that Thor knows The Truth, there’s really no point to keeping much of anything from him, no reason not to explain the current situation fully.

“Well, now that you are aware of…the true nature of things, my explanation of my troubles should make a great deal more sense.” Thor nods as Loki pauses for a second, collecting his thoughts and deciding how best to explain this. (‘In small words, and as few of them as possible’ is a given, of course, but the specifics are still unclear.) “As I said before, my magic is out of control, and none of the Asgardian spells I’ve tried thus far have proved particularly helpful.” He glances to the side, at the scattered books and sheets of parchment languishing in drying pools of ink, his tone gaining the hint of an edge at the sight. “I _had_ been researching a way to correct this problem, and though I have searched in vain for an alternate plan, the fact remains that there is only one way that seems at all likely of having a chance of success. And for that way to work, I will need help.” He looks up and over at Thor, gritting his teeth as he draws breath to admit his own weakness and his lack of ability to handle this on his own, to say _your help,_ but Thor speaks before he has the chance.

“Then you shall have it, Brother. You should have no doubts about that.”

Loki lets that drawn and held breath go, exhaling slowly, silently, his eyes falling half-closed as he studies the blonde warrior coolly. “Are you certain? I haven’t even told you what we’ll have to do. It could be dangerous.”

“I don’t mind danger.”

“It could be very, _very_ dangerous,” Loki says, pointedly repeating himself. “We could both die.”

Thor gives him a meaningful look as he settles a hand on Loki’s shoulder, grave and entirely serious. “You are my brother, and I owe you my life anyway. If it will help you, then I care not how dangerous it may be—I will not turn aside or take back my offer to lend you my aid.” A roguish smile breaks through that seriousness, and Thor’s large, meaty hand lifts to administer an affectionate cuff to the second prince’s upper arm. “Come now, Loki! Do not keep me in suspense! Surely you know by now that patience is not one of my many virtues. Tell me what it is we must do.”

The younger prince doesn’t move right away, taking the stinging slap to the side of his arm without flinching, looking steadily at his self-proclaimed brother, his expression that of someone testing the depths of a stream before attempting a crossing. “Very well then,” Loki says at last with the ghost of one of his old mischievous crooked smirks. “The first thing we must do for my plan to be put into motion is to gain access to the Weapons Vault... _undetected.”_

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -


	12. { .XII. } {In Which A Solution Is Finally Found (i.e. More Magic Fixes Everything)}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The Destroyer seems to work a little differently in the MCU than it does in the comics, so we’ll just go with the MCU interpretation here and assume that it’s more like a robot that obeys the will of the King of Asgard, instead of requiring someone’s life-force to power it.

Thor is already well aware that in Loki-speak, _gain access_ means _sneak into._ He is also aware that Loki is a great deal more intelligent than he is, and that his plans usually work; if there were a better, easier, or more certain way of going about doing this, Thor doesn’t doubt that Loki would have done it already. In any case, it isn’t his place to second-guess his brother’s strategies. He’s given his word, he will fight alongside his brother no matter the cost, and he _does_ believe in Loki’s plan…but that still doesn’t mean he particularly _likes_ it.

Little does Thor know, Loki _has_ thought of a dozen other ways this task could be attempted, up to and including simply asking the All-father for his permission to enter the Vault. He’d only settled on this one because, while dangerous, this way offers the best odds while still allowing Loki to do things his own way, on his own terms.

…Or maybe, the Trickster thinks to himself with a carefully-hidden and just slightly manic smile, he picked this way solely because it’s sure to be the most _interesting._ Especially since Thor is at his side once again.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

It is not in the nature of the thunder-god to be afraid, at least not as far as his own physical safety is concerned; but as the blonde prince dons his armour, he can’t help feeling the slightest pang of apprehension for his brother. Then the words of his wise and noble father echo in his ears, and he takes comfort in the answers he gives to each question:

_**Who are you truly doing this for?** For my brother Loki. And for myself, to prove to both of us that I am on his side._

_**Who stands to gain?** Loki, if his plan unfolds the way it ought and I uphold my part in it. And I do as well, for I shall have my brother returned to me as he was before._

_**Who stands to lose?** Loki, if I betray his trust or turn my back on him. And myself, if Loki’s plan fails or causes him some sort of harm._

_**And what will those gains and loses be?** _

That last question is one that Thor finds he cannot answer. He has no way of knowing what could or would happen should this adventure of sorts go ill, and thus decides that he is better off not knowing. He will make sure that this plan succeeds, so he will not have to worry about gains or losses or anything in between the two.

Only recently Loki had protected Thor’s life with his own—had almost _given_ his life for Thor’s, in fact; now Thor will do the same, for he owes his brother at least that much. And what Thor Odinson owes, he pays back in full, regardless of the cost.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Loki finds a surprisingly silent Thor waiting for him when he knocks at his brother’s door late in the night. There is a _gravitas_ about him that Loki has previously only associated with Odin himself, a grim determination and inexorable dominion that both prove more than anything else ever could have that Thor is indeed the Odinson.

Loki is not entirely certain what to make of it. The Thor he knows is eager and overly enthusiastic, eternally hungry for glory and always craving a challenge, with nary a thought or a care as to what consequences his actions might bring about. This time, though, Loki can tell Thor has thought things through (at least as much as he is capable of doing so, since Loki hasn’t told him all of the details of what he’s planning), and yet his brother still joins him unhesitatingly, closing the door to his chambers and falling into step with Loki without a word, a strong and silent supporter.

They reach the Vault without incident (since Loki had already cloaked them from Heimdall's all-seeing gaze before he'd even left his chambers), and it is the work of an instant for Loki to neutralise the two guards standing at attention outside the doors, sending them into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep where they stand, before either so much as catches a glimpse of either brother. And once inside, Loki seals them in. There will be no turning back now, and in any case, Loki can’t risk having his delicate magical manipulations disturbed or in any way interrupted by an outside party.

There are surprisingly few preparations to make, though the first part of the plan isn’t terribly technical: grab the Casket, awaken the Destroyer. The second and third parts of the plan are more tricky, especially since Loki’s attention will be focused on the Casket, figuring out firsthand how it works and how best to use it to stabilise his magic, leaving him little enough time and effort to spare to offer Thor any assistance with the Vault’s decidedly intimidating guardian.

That aspect of the plan, as well as Thor’s reaction (or rather the lack thereof) to The Truth that Loki had shared with him earlier that day, is something in which the younger prince scarcely dares to truly place his trust. Even now, hours after the fact, he’s still reeling from it all, not at all certain what he should think or feel about any of it. What he does feel, however, is a mingling mixture of admiration and affection and also the slightest hint of disdain at Thor’s nigh-on childlike credulity; after all, Loki has given no proof whatsoever that he is still to be trusted. For all the blonde warrior knows, Loki is planning a truly spectacular double-cross, and might simply steal the Casket and flee to Jotunheim, leaving Thor behind to face the implacable Destroyer and the irate All-father.

And yet, even without any logical reason to do so, Thor still has faith in his brother—faith enough to turn his back on the younger prince, firm in his belief that Loki will watch it, not stab him in it.

Of course, part of that is undoubtedly due to the fact that Thor is eager to test his strength against the All-father’s sentinel. He hasn’t had a decent match or suitable challenger since well before they faced down Andvari, and the dragon doesn’t really count since that kill had been mostly Loki’s, really.

There are no runes to write, no circles to draw, no incantations to utter, not for this part of the plan. Nothing is required to summon the Destroyer and begin working on gaining control of the Casket other than simply stepping forward, taking hold of the glowing relic, and then taking half a dozen strides backward: simplicity itself. So Loki does just that, the whole operation taking perhaps five seconds total from the time he steps forward to the time he returns to the spot he'd first started from.

Almost instantly the temperature drops, both princes’ breaths hanging in visible clouds about their faces, and the sheen of a thin sheet of ice is already visible on the floor and walls and every other surface surrounding them.

Equally instantly, the regular latticework at the end of the Vault begins to vanish, and seconds later the huge, steely body of the Destroyer looms into view.

Loki, who has already knelt on the frost-rimed floor of the vault in order to turn his full attention to the task at hand, looks up with wide eyes as that empty, gaping maw in the construct’s helmet begins to glow--then Thor is suddenly standing in front of him, deflecting the energy beam it had fired straight back at it with the whirling blur of his hammer, and punctuating that counterattack by flinging Mjölnir squarely at the Destroyer’s chest. The force of that double-blow knocks the construct backwards, back the way it had come, and after summoning his hammer back to his hand, Thor hurls himself after it, both god and guardian disappearing from view.

Although quite frankly he _is_ a little curious as to how his brother will fare against such a being (or is it more of a non-being?), Loki doesn’t have time to spare for such wonderings, and even if Thor had kept the battle contained inside the Vault, Loki wouldn’t have seen another second of it. Closing his eyes tightly, he draws all of himself inward, focusing every shred of power and magic that he possesses on the frigidly-pulsing box between his hands, wedging a part of himself inside it. It’s a struggle, not unlike free-climbing his way up a vertical mountain-slope in the middle of a raging blizzard, knowing that one wrong move could knock him back to where he’d begun, or perhaps even kill him outright. Had he opened his eyes, Loki would have found himself in the centre of a _literal_ blizzard, for even that small crack he’d created to force his way inside the Casket has unleashed a truly breathtaking amount of magical energy, filling the air with a whirling, arctic assault of snowflakes, covering the whole room with a creeping layer of ice.

Truth be told, Loki is somewhat taken by surprise: he’d expected the overwhelming power and difficult secrets and the like, but the level of inherent hostility the Casket turns on him catches him flatfooted. There is no mercy, no softness, no warmth to this power at all; it is a brutal sort of might, and having all the compassionless force of the elements and Nature itself bearing down on him all at once is more than a little difficult to endure. 

And even though it’s another battle of magic and willpower, it’s not at all the same as the battle with Andvari had been. In that fight he had been facing another single, sentient being--a powerful one to be sure, and nigh on immortal just as he himself was, yet not impossible to kill. Here and now, it’s as if he’s trying to fight the storm itself, a relentless, unending entity with no real beginning or end, that can fade and then return full-force in the space of a moment, or a day, or a month. It possesses no boundaries, no limits to its power, and trying to grasp at it is like trying to take hold of an unquiet sea and move it with naught but his bare hands.

The fact that his magic is responding to the magic of the Casket makes things even more difficult, for it’s as if this relic taken from his original home-world seeks to gain control of _him,_ and is entirely resistant to the concept of allowing the reverse to happen. Ever since their journey to Svartalfheim, Loki’s magic has been stronger than ever and yet still unstable at best, but now little by little the young prince finds that it is growing truly uncontrollable--not resistant or elusive like before, but now actively disobedient, even outright defiant of his wishes, forcing him to wage war on two fronts simultaneously, outwardly against the Casket of Ancient Winters, and inwardly against his own self.

Beneath this dual assault, Loki soon loses all sense of the passage of time; he doesn’t know how long this battle of arcane forces has lasted, seconds, minutes, hours, _days,_ but he’s beginning to lose touch with his senses as well, his very self becoming lost in an eternally-spinning world of coldness and white. The outward form of the Casket itself has begun to work against him as well, an attempt to end the battle altogether by severing their physical connection…which at this point, with how far extended Loki’s inner self has become, how _lost_ he is inside the power of the Casket, would leave Loki’s spirit trapped inside that stolen item of power forever. The always-cool metal handles on either side of the now-incandescent relic have become algific, the subzero temperature practically radiating off of it, the energy emanating from the little box so cold that it feels like it’s burning him. It’s worst of all on his palms, which feel as though they’ve been scoured raw by the tiny, endless shards of ice howling all around him and it’s too much to bear, he has to let go, can’t hang onto it any longer--

But then Thor proves that he actually is something of a True Hero, because at the very moment when Loki is certain that he can’t hold on for one second longer, _he can’t stand it it hurts it hurts it hurts he has to let go,_ Thor is suddenly there at his side, grasping at Loki’s snow-covered shoulders, breaking through the ice that had finished its work on the Vault and had begun to cover the Trickster instead. Thor’s strong hands and solid presence bring Loki back to himself, and they also make him feel as if he's stronger himself somehow, steadier, more grounded, warmer. The younger prince risks a harried sideways glance and finds his brother looking weary and decidedly worse for the wear: his cape is ragged and torn, his armour jagged-edged and cracked and even outright shattered in places, and one of those (frankly stupid-looking) wings has been completely broken off his helmet. There’s also a freely-bleeding and vicious-looking cut slashing down the side of his face, and a shiny-looking burn running the length of his right arm from shoulder to wrist, but regardless of that, there’s a toothy grin on his face and a triumphant fire burning in those bright blue eyes. Loki feels the corners of his own mouth pull upwards just slightly, for he knows without a doubt that the Destroyer won’t bother them again, because somehow, beyond all logic and reason, Thor has won.

But even if he wished to hear the details of that fight (and he’s not entirely certain that he does--Thor doesn’t really need yet another excuse to boast about his mighty deeds), at the moment Loki doesn’t have the time or energy to spare to ask for them; he can feel both the Casket and his own magic wresting themselves free of his control again, and he grits his teeth, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill in the air and the ice surrounding them.

Thor’s smile vanishes in an instant, his grip on Loki’s shoulders tightening…and in that moment, Loki realises the only way to bring the Casket of Ancient Winters (and thus his own power) fully under his control. The Casket had been taken from Jotunheim, a trophy won by Odin by strength of arm and will and mind, through battle…and blood. Magic worked exceedingly strongly where blood and blood-rites were involved, and things once won by blood could often be taken by another solely through an equally grim sort of sacrifice. And in this case, to unlock the power of the Casket fully, to truly take it and make it his own, Loki would need the blood of its conqueror--the blood of the All-father himself.

But as he looks over his shoulder at Thor’s concerned face—and that wicked, still-dripping gash running from temple to jawbone—Loki suddenly knows precisely how to get around this. And while it would be easy, so easy, to simply take what he needs, to assume that Thor would agree to aid him regardless of the cause, for some reason he finds that something in him is compelled to ask first.

“…Thor. Do you trust me,” he says quietly, his gaze flicking up to meet Thor’s only briefly before skittering down and away, focusing on his hands and their white-knuckled grip on the Casket. It’s a loaded question, and it means so much more than it’s asking. More than trust, what Loki really wants to know is if Thor still cares about him, and loves him as much as he’d always claimed to before, or if The Truth has changed things, ruined things, left him with nothing.

Thor replies immediately, without even a half-beat of hesitance: “Of course, Brother. Of course I trust you.” The slight frown on his almost-too-close face adds a hint of curious confusion, an unspoken _why wouldn’t I?_

And that is permission and reassurance enough for Loki. Without another thought he lets go of one side of the Casket, careful not to ever fully break contact with it, and swipes at the blood on Thor’s cheek with his fingers, then bends over the Casket and uses the blood to inscribe a streaky but solidly-formed rune— _ansuz_ —on one of the powerful relic’s smooth sides. He writes another— _nauthiz_ —just below it, then bites down the tip of his thumb hard enough to draw blood. He retraces that second rune with his own blood, mixing his blood with Thor’s, then sucks his thumb clean before smearing another— _dagaz_ —beside it with only his own blood.

The Casket hums against his palms as he resumes his double-handed grip on it, the roiling blizzard it contains as lethally fierce as ever; but there’s a indistinct and yet unmistakable shift in that boxed-in power now. Now it feels as if, even though he can still no more stop it or contain it than he could change the path of the sun and moon, he could turn it aside with very little effort, direct its flow, channel its power wherever or however he likes. All of that mighty, ancient magic will work alongside him of its own accord instead of fighting him: it has accepted that, accepted the blood, accepted _him._

Everything is in place, all is ready; the only thing that remains is to cast the spell to truly bind this magic to himself. Closing his eyes, Loki murmurs a lilting sort of chant, his whispering voice rising and falling as words of the Ancient Tongue burn their way up his throat, searing his mouth, scorching his lips, then flickering and flaring into visible, radiant life as he breathes them out into the air like twisting, luminous smoke. The second prince continues to chant, his voice growing thick with comingled power and pain, and the strange, alien letters symbolising each word continue to pour from his mouth until the air is thick with them, and their brilliance is nigh on unbearable.

Thor is forced to screw his eyes closed and turn his head aside, and even one as unskilled in magic as he can feel the giddy buzzing of that arcane energy surrounding them mounting and swiftly increasing until it’s nearly maddening. But just when he thinks that he surely cannot endure it for another instant, Loki rasps out one final, forceful word—and Thor’s breath catches in his throat as the very world itself seems to explode in a flare of intensely white-bright light that swallows up everything until that light is all that Thor knows.

Then the ground beneath him tilts and spins and gives way, and all he knows is darkness.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

When Thor comes to, the light is gone. Tentatively opening his eyes, he finds himself face-down on the floor of the Vault, feeling as if he’d been hammered down into the cool, sandy-grey stone by the fists of an entire Jotun army. For a long moment, he simply lets himself lie there, unwilling or unable to move; then a sudden thought hits him, an abrupt fear tearing through him that has him struggling to his knees even as his eyes dart wildly about the room: _Loki._

The room is filled with smoke or steam, which it is he can’t tell, and at first he can’t see anything other than those thick, all-enveloping clouds; then at last the haze dissipates somewhat, and he sees him.

Loki is standing there, about five metres away, looking every inch as tired and worn as he had after fighting the dragon…but from what Thor can see, he’s unharmed and most importantly of all, _alive._

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

_It’s over,_ Loki realises with a slightly dazed sense of relief, over at long last, and that knowledge alone makes it difficult not to give in to the fatigue-induced tremours shuddering their way up his legs and simply collapse to the floor next to Thor in exhaustion. But he doesn’t give in to that temptation, doesn’t move at all for a long moment, until at long last he stoops to take up the Casket of Ancient Winters once again, though he doesn't remember ever letting go of it in the first place, and reverently returns it to its pedestal. (The surface of the Casket is clean as before, the smeared streaks of blood—his blood and Thor’s both—are nowhere to be seen, Loki is intrigued though not wholly surprised to note. It’s a part of him now, a part of both of them, just as they are parts of it. Equally interesting is the fact that the thick layer of ice that had covered the inside of the Vault is gone as well, leaving not a trace of dampness or a single droplet of water in its wake.) And once that minor task is complete, the younger prince simply stands there before it with his eyes tightly closed, taking stock of the situation and how he feels:

That internal snowstorm is still howling away inside of him, but just like the Casket, it’s closed off and sealed away. The cold engulfs him, coating his insides with sheet upon sheet of ice and layer upon layer of snow; but though he can still feel the chill settled deep in his bones and nesting in the pit of his stomach, it’s a distant sort of sensation. Those frigid fingers claw at him just like before, but this time they fall away, unable to find any purchase, and leave him entirely unscathed and, _finally,_ completely in control of himself and every aspect of his magic.

He breathes deeply, exhales…and opens his eyes, mouth curving and lips parting to flash a truly _enormous_ grin at Thor through the dissipating remnants of that frost-tinted breath. In an instant Thor is on his feet, sporting a matching grin as he reaches out eagerly to clasp his brother’s hand, then his shoulder—and then with a laugh full of relief and a pure, golden joy that comes bubbling up from the bottom of his very soul, the older prince hauls the younger forward, catching him a warm, expansive embrace. Loki can feel his ribs creak a bit, and nearly chokes as his brother joyfully pounds his back in congratulations, but at least Thor hasn’t picked him up outright or spun him around or both, and there’s no-one around to see anyway. In any case, it’s been so very, very long since Loki could allow anyone to touch him without fear of drastic and truly terrible repercussions that he doesn’t have it in him to pull away just yet. In fact, almost before he realises what he’s doing, his own arms have come up, winding their way tightly around his brother’s expansive back and across his broad shoulders, and he returns the embrace, clinging to Thor as if his life depended on it. And for a time, he basks in the sunny warmth of his brother’s open and honest affection and enjoys the simple pleasure of a shared embrace. 

It takes Loki a moment to realise that his brother is saying something, and weary as he is, he focuses on the words only with difficulty.

“You did it, Brother,” Thor is still chuckling proudly, the sound full and rich despite his battle-battered appearance.

Loki pulls away just enough to look up into those brightly shining blue eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says gravely. It isn’t strictly true, of course—there are ways he could have done this by himself, but none of them had the right flair, none of them allowed him to do things _his way_ —but it’s true enough that Thor doesn’t catch the half-truth, and Loki doesn’t give himself away even slightly. He hadn’t flinched while telling a lie since he was in diapers, and even if it was half-lie, it was still half-truth as well, which was all Thor needed to know.

Impossibly, Thor’s gaze grows even warmer, and he gives Loki another fond slap on the back. And for once, it is the older prince who states the obvious: “But we haven’t gotten away with it just yet, Brother. We’re still here,” he spreads his arms expansively, indicating the Vault, “Are we not?”

Loki bites his lip, though it does nothing to hide his sudden smile and soft snort of amusement. “Indeed we are,” he says, his smile stretching into a smirk as he (almost effortlessly, now) reaches both outwards and inwards at once and gives the fabric of reality a gentle tug. “Or rather, we were.”

In an instant he’s magicked them both back into Thor’s chambers, quick and easy as breathing. Thor gapes about him in wonder, first at the room itself (by all rights looking as if he’d never seen the place before), then at Loki, clearly startled beyond words. Loki can read the growing astonishment and respect in his brother’s face though, and knows that now is the time to make good his escape. Complete control gained and power balanced or not, after a working of such magnitude and intensity, the younger prince is feeling bone-weary, and he is well aware of his limits; if he doesn’t return to his own chambers soon, he’ll not make it there at all, at least not under his own power.

As he turns to go, he feels a hand descend on his shoulder, and he has to remind himself not to flinch, that there's nothing to be afraid of any more. Especially not from Thor.

“Thank you, Brother,” the elder prince rumbles, and Loki turns under his hand, not enough to pull away and break that point of contact, but just enough to meet Thor’s eyes with a look that plainly says _thank you for what?_

“For trusting me enough to tell me the truth,” Thor elaborates on noting his brother’s puzzled glance, “and for allowing me to join you on this most splendid of quests.”

Loki turns his head a bit more, studying his brother’s face closely and wondering if, perhaps, Thor _did_ know or at least suspected that Loki could very well have gone about this differently. That he could’ve done it all on his own if he’d been willing to cut some corners and make a few personal sacrifices. In all honestly, it had been more than a little tempting to do just that...but Loki hated the idea of giving up anything that he didn’t strictly have to, especially when there was an easier, more clean-cut way to go about it so readily available. Loki wonders if perhaps Thor knew that, too, though that might be giving his brother a bit too much credit. There is some undeniable change to Thor of late, however: a slight but still significant shift. He’s different—not smarter, exactly, but perhaps a little wiser.

“You have only yourself to thank for that, Thor,” he says with the first entirely real smile he's shown anyone for months, then adds impulsively, musingly, and just a trifle randomly, “You will be a very good king someday, you know.” Deep down, Loki had always known that his brother would be a _great_ king, but now he’s equally certain that Thor will be a _Good_ king as well.

Thor puffs up a bit at that, but Loki can’t really blame him for it; the younger prince isn’t exactly free with that sort of compliment, and even though they (hopefully) have centuries still before Thor will permanently take Asgard’s throne, Loki is well aware that his brother is already agonizing over what sort of king he’ll turn out to be. And after all Thor’s done for him tonight, that bit of reassurance certainly isn’t out of place.

“In truth, I should be the one thanking you, Brother,” Loki goes on as he eases out from under Thor’s hand at last, backing away one step, two, before turning and resting his own hand flat against the door. The words are hard to say, but after sharing the Truth with Thor, Loki can find little enough reason to lie or hold anything back, at least for now. “For trusting me, in spite of everything. And for offering your aid, your strength, and your blood so freely.” Suddenly and inexplicably nervous, he darts a swift glance back over his shoulder...only to find Thor smiling that warm, golden smile once again.

“Your thanks are welcome, but unneeded,” the thunder-god chuckles, turning away himself and heading deeper into his chambers. “You are my brother, Loki, and I love you. That is one thing that will never change, no matter how different we may grow to be as time passes. This I swear on my life, my blood, and my hammer.”

Loki swallows hard, feeling tears prickling at the back of his eyes again, but he blinks rapidly, and this time he manages to hold them back, managing a quick and somewhat cunning smile.

“Good to know I’ll always be able to count on you if I need someone with a great deal of brute strength to pull off one of my schemes.”

Thor chuckles again, one eyebrow lifting a bit at that not-quite-compliment. “And it is also good to know that I will have you by my side always to offer wise counsel, at least when you have moment to spare from all those schemes.”

“Indeed, Brother,” Loki murmurs, his slight, sly smile unaltered as he slips out the door, “Indeed.”

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Although he’d forced himself to stand straight and walk smoothly in his brother’s presence, Loki scarcely makes it to his chambers before his knees give out, and he’s forced to quite literally crawl his way to his bed. And yet, despite his exhaustion, he finds himself smiling broadly and sincerely, every hint of slyness and cunning gone--an expression that, although he can’t know it, is mirrored on Thor’s face at that very moment. Both feel closer to one another than they have in years, for they share a deep secret now, and together they have completed a quest that no one else knows anything about.

Both princes soon give in to fatigue and drift off into a heavy, dreamless sleep, feeling satisfied and whole and thick as thieves once more, as well they should; after all, they had solved Loki’s problem, they hadn’t gotten caught...and from the look of the Vault, they hadn’t stolen a thing.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

And in the upper levels of the palace, in the dark, empty throne room, the All-father releases a heavy sigh of weary relief and leans back on his throne. Huginn and Muninn are croaking hoarsely at each other from their perches on either side of him, sharing a back-and-forth rumour-ridden (and highly impolite) commentary about the adopted Second Prince of Asgard and his folly in stealing from the Lord of the Aesir, the Battle Wolf, the Hanged God himself. Odin pays them no heed, neither agreeing with the heaps of abuse they pile on Loki nor seeking to silence their shrieking, and lets his single far-seeing grey eye slide closed.

The ravens are right to be excited over this, he knows, for though this return of an ancient artifact of power to its rightful heir has solved one set of problems, it will doubtless present an entirely new series of troubles later. It is a temporary fix at best, and a truly and deeply dangerous one at worst, should certain ill choices be made in the future; but for now, the Raven-god is simply glad to have this matter settled, no matter how transitory the ensuing peace may be.


	13. { .XIII. } {In Which Thor’s Brain Finally Finishes Playing Catch-Up, & There Is A Happy Ending For Loki (At Least For Now)}

It’s a full day later when the other shoe finally drops.

A good night’s sleep--the first Loki has had in months--was all it had taken for them to recover from yesterday’s escapade. Odin has said nothing to them about the incident, though surely he must know of it, if he hadn’t seen it himself. At the very least he must have heard some hint of it from Heimdall, who certainly would have mentioned that he’d somehow lost sight of _both_ of Asgard’s princes for most of the previous night.

...But perhaps the sight of his sons working together again in something very much like the perfect harmony they’d had when they were small boys was enough for the All-father to disregard their actions, and to allow such a blatant transgression to pass under his watchful eye unmarked.

Right now both of Asgard’s princes are dressed in their finest, making their way down the corridor from their respective quarters to Odin’s Hall for another grand feast to honour some warrior or another, when without warning Thor stops in his tracks.

 _“…LAUFEY’s son?”_ Mjölnir slips from his hand, landing with an echoing _clang_ on the marble floor, leaving a fine spider-web of cracks lacing the once-smooth stone. Inwardly Loki flinches, but when he calmly turns to meet Thor’s wide-eyed stare, he finds no fear, no hate, just shock and curiosity and a healthy amount of disbelief. “Laufey’s son?” Thor repeats, softer and a bit wonderingly.

It’s always an odd thing for Loki, those rare occasions he finds himself with nothing to say. But this is one of those times, and the only response he can find is a small, tight smile that is not _really_ a smile and a tiny nod. That tenseness from yesterday is back, and he’s ready to dodge or run or magick himself out of there if the storm constantly swirling in Thor’s blue-grey eyes rises and the bigger man lashes out unexpectedly. He can’t help taking an involuntary half-step backwards when Thor abruptly closes the distance between them with two swift strides, his hand coming up—

—And settling on Loki’s shoulder, his grip heavy and firm, but unmistakably an affectionate clasp.

“I would think you spoke in jest, Loki, had I not seen the evidence with mine own eyes these past months, yesterday in particular. And even still I know not how this thing can truly be…but one thing I do know.”

Thor’s gaze is intense and intent, and Loki hardly dares believe in the warmth in that broad smile stretching across his face.

“Whether we share the same blood matters not: we two shall always be brothers. For now and forever, unto the very ends of time and beyond.”

Loki isn’t sure if the sudden lump in his throat is more from gathering tears of relief, or his gag reflex reacting to that bit of shameless sentimentality. Either way, he has to blink hard and swallow before he can speak, and even then he has to clear his throat first.

“I suppose any attempt I might make at argument would only prove your point, wouldn’t it?”

Thor just gives a deep chuckle, that huge hand clapping Loki on the side of the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger, and almost hard enough to send the younger prince into the nearest wall.

“Aye, it would indeed. It gladdens me that you recognise as much…though of course, you _have_ always been the smart one, Brother.”

Giving Loki a couple more of those tooth-rattling pats, the blonde steps away to retrieve his hammer, then continues onwards down the hallway as if nothing at all had happened. As if everything is normal, all as it had been before, just as it’s always been for as long as either of them can remember.

“Come, we must make haste,” Thor says over his shoulder without breaking stride. “Father will be most displeased if we're late to tonight’s feast.”

Loki wavers, a half-beat of hesitance, then lengthens his own stride to catch up to his self-proclaimed brother, falling into step with him once again. It feels too easy, too simple even for Thor, and despite the contented smile the blonde warrior turns on him, Loki isn’t fully convinced that this is the end of things. But he hedges a slight smile of his own in return, the expression feeling far less forced than he’d expected. And this time the sudden warmth he feels growing inside him isn’t at all unpleasant, and has nothing to do with whatever physical changes his body has been going through.

After all, some things went deeper than blood.

\- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

_Fin~_ :]  



End file.
